Skip to main content

Full text of ""Eagle clippings""

See other formats





A If 9 





HJUVERSirUT of mmkii camm 



vcd no 46~ 







J^ i^jX-"?^^ 

i^^Jfc j 

This book must not 
be taken from the 
Library building. 


15th page, 14th line from bottom: "to see shackled hands" 

26th page, 13th line from top: "a very unpleasant — yea ag- 
gravating malady." 

Page 29, 4th line from top: "a cry of indignation that would 
have shaken the very temple of the Caesars" 

45th page, 8th line from top: "Two boy criminals"; 5th line 
from bottom R. S. King's letter: "let the law enjoy its" etc. 

106th page, 14th line from top: "high ceilinged room" 

81st page, 9th line from top: "Stoically returning a blow given 
in jest" 

DAVID B. FULTON, Publisher 


Brooklyn, N. Y. 
Read carefully Introductory Note, please. 

L.avinia k/£.. tTultot 

\jack <J/iorne" 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2013 v 








Copyrighted by D. B. Fulton 
All rights reserved 

3fatrolmctorp J£ote 

It zvas said to me one day, by a once highly esteemed 
friend of mine, during a hot controversy over a disputed 
bill for printing, that I was an eccentric on the Race ques- 
tion. This taunt from the lips of one of my own people, a 
man who had my confidence, who seemed heartily in sym- 
pathy with me, advising me in the construction of at least 
a few of my many contributions to daily and weekly papers, 
somewhat chilled $>y ardor in the work of defense — for 
after all, in all of my writings on the Race question, I have 
simply been on the defensive, answering traducers and en- 
deavoring to ward off the blows aimed at my people by the 

When constructing Hanover, many of my friends who 
listened to the readings, were apprehensive and fearful for 
my safety, in spite of the fact that I was so far removed 
from the scene of the awful tragedy which the story relates. 
Other readers of Hanover and other contributions have 
said with no feigned anxiety, "Your pen is a very venomous 
weapon. You are doubtless right; I admire your grit, 
but you might make it a trifle milder," etc. These appre- 
hensions were not without warrant. I fully believe that the 
attempt on the part of the officials of the institution in 
which I was employed for four years, to injure my reputa- 
tion, and send me from their employ, branded as a felon, 
-*» was the result of my defense of my people in the columns 

v") of the "Eagle" ; that the "Eagle's" final refusal to further 

consider my contributions, are the result of influences 

r- 3 

brought to bear from the same source. Yet in the follow- 
ing pages I will prove to the reader that every article from 
my pen upon the Race question was called forth by the 
anamidversions hurled from the other side. 

Although the entire contents of this little book are not 
clippings from the columns of the "Brooklyn Daily Eagle," 
I have thought it best to give it the title "Eagle Clippings," 
because I hold the "Eagle" in high esteem for its broad 
democracy and bravery in the treatment of its corre- 

"The Eagle," a Democratic organ, professes no friend- 
ship for the Negro race, yet it has generally allowed the 
writer to wage battles through its columns by giving abund- 
ant space for articles that were considered by the friendly 
Republican editors too sweeping for publication. On ac- 
count of the "Eagle's" often disparaging editorials on the 
Race question, many of my friends have purchased a copy 
of the paper only when informed that an article of mine zvas 

To such friends is this little volume especially presented, 
that they may enjoy some of the many contributions on sub- 
jects nearest their hearts and mine. 

I plead for the acceptance of this little volume, not alone 
because of my bold defense of my people I became the 
object of the spleen of those who possessed the power to rob 
me of the means of support, but because its contents are the 
outpourings of a heart full of love for a maligned race and 
jealous of their wrongs. While, no doubt, other contribu- 
tors have been enabled to demand something for their time 
and talents, the author of "Eagle Clippings" has been glad 
to, so far, be so indulged in the prosecution of his loved 
work as to have it accepted gratis by the great "Brooklyn 
Daily Eagle" and other periodicals. This should kindle 
a sympathetic flame in the hearts of my friends, for I be- 
lieve I have many, to compensate me for the labors in 
behalf of the race. 



(From The Standard Union.) 

Lavinia Robinson Fulton, mother of D. B. Fulton, better 
known as "Jack Thorne," and one of the strongest writers 
of the race, died at her late residence, 465 Baltic Street, last 
Monday evening, from paralysis. The funeral services 
will be held to-morrow at 2 P. M. at the Concord Baptist 
Church of Christ. I% 

Lavinia Robinson was born in Bobeson County, North 
Carolina, about sixty-seven years ago. She was the eldest 
of fourteen children of Hamlet and Amy Robinson. Sent 
away from her parents at a very early age, she grew up as 
many slave children, without the affection, love and counsel 
of a mother. Through the indulgence of her master she 
learned when very young to read the Bible and was con- 
verted when about thirteen years of age. She entered the 
Baptist Church of which her master was deacon, and was 
baptized by the Rev. James McDonald, a famous Scotch 
divine, known as the "silver-tongued orator of the Cumber- 
land," the Talmage of the early 40's. Although like all 
slave women, environed by circumstances in no way con- 
ducive to upright living, Lavinia Robinson Fulton lived a 
pure, upright and consistent life, always seeking the com- 
panionship of those whose lives accorded with her own. 
Married to Benjamin Fulton at the age of fourteen, she 
bore him ten children, five of whom now live, four in 
Brooklyn. One is with the father in North Carolina. To 
her children she was never demonstrative, but sought to 
prepare them for the real earnest battle of life. She set- 
tled in Wilmington in 1867, and saw in the American Mis- 
sionary Association, then at work among the freedmen 
there, the much desired opportunity to improve herself and 
educate her children, and immediately put herself in touch 
with these people. In 1875 sne became one of the founders 

of the First Congregational Church, of Wilmington, N. C. 
Every opportunity for moral, religious and intellectual ad- 
vancement her children have enjoyed has come to them 
through the self-sacrificing devotion and the sterling Chris- 
tian character of this mother. Her nearly ten years' resi- 
dence in Brooklyn have been years of unceasing toil, yet 
she never let pass an opportunity to speak a word for her 
Master whom she has faithfully and unwaveringly followed, 
going out when the opportunity presented itself to partici- 
pate in the Salvation Army services to which she had be- 
come very much attached. Her children never grew too old 
to be her constant care and anxiety and the burden of her 

Brooklyn, N. Y., July 16, 1904. 
Mr. Benjamin Fulton, 

Middle Sound, North Carolina. 
Dear Brother Ben : — 

The enclosed clipping is the press announcement of the 
death of mother which occurred on the 4th instant. She 
was ill but a very short period. Up to about three months 
ago, she was apparently in the best of health; in fact, her 
health was generally better here than in the South. But 
being constantly on the go, she contracted quite a good deal 
of cold. Sister Hattie tried to persuade her more than a 
year ago to take a rest, but she would not until compelled 
to give up. She died as she lived, a devoted mother, an 
earnest Christian. When the end came she was at sister's, 
and we all were with her but you. She had, since the riots 
at Wilmington, expressed an unwillingness to be buried 
there, so we buried her here, and the funeral was attended 
by many old Wilmington friends. No nobler mother ever 
lived; no truer Christian ever died. She desired much to 
see you ; will you make it your aim to meet her on the other 
side? May we hear from you soon? I would have writ- 
ten you sooner, but I have just gotten your address from 
Mrs. Powell. Hoping that you all are very well, I am, 
Yours affectionately, 


502 Fulton Street. 


Experiences of One Man Who Came to the Metropolis in 
the Late Eighties, Looking for Honest Employment. 

(From The Brooklyn Citizen.) 

From the time of my arrival in New York in '87, and 
entering the employ of the Pullman Palace Car Co. in '88, 
up to Dec, 1905, I had been able to give a pretty accurate 
account of my time — nine years in the Palace car service, 
four years in a large music house in New York City, two 
years at odd jobs, and at the close of the year 1905 I had 
about wound up four years in the employ of the Central 
Branch of The Young Men's Christian Association of 
Brooklyn, feeling that a change of atmosphere would per- 
haps conduce toward the strengthening of my faith in the 
efficacy of Christian religion which contact with "Scribes" 
had somewhat weakened. The uninitiated, perusing the 
columns of the great New York dailies with their innumer- 
able "Help Wanted" advertisements, would readily conclude 
that the seeking of employment in the great Metropolis 
need be no irksome task to any one. But the major por- 
tion of these want ads. are mere will-o'-the-wisps, put there 
apparently to tantalize and to throw into the abyss of des- 
pair honest seekers after the tangible. Such announce- 
ments as "Wanted — Cooks, waiters, chambermaids, coach- 
men, butlers, hall-boys, bellmen, laundresses," etc., etc., are 
invariably the fabrications of unscrupulous employment 
agents, who spread their nets to catch the unwary, whose 
money they greedily pocket and hurry them off to fill posi- 
tions which, to their knowledge, are already filled through 

other agencies. Experience had taught me that in seeking 
work in New York, both of these mediums were to be 
eschewed. My first position, which cost me just half of my 
fortune, was a place way out in Fordham, where I was en- 
gaged to drive a horse and milk the cow. I knew little 
about horses and nothing about cows. In less than a week 
I had broken the shaft of the man's buggy, was dismissed, 
and with my belongings was on my way back to the shrewd 
son of Abraham, who had followed me to the door on the 
day of my departure from his office, rubbing his clammy 
hands and whining: "Eef th' blace dus nod suit you, vhy 
cum back an' I gif you a nudder." But when he saw me 
approaching the office a second time he met me at the door 
and, holding up his hands in feigned horror, swore by the 
beard of the prophet that he had fulfilled his contract and 
would do no more. If he did not see greenness in my face, 
he took the chance at bluffing me out of three dollars, and 
succeeded. This well-remembered experience turned me 
into other channels in search of work this time. Accepting 
the agency of a Health and Accident Insurance Company, 
at the end of a month of canvassing I had on my book the 
names of a host of sympathetic friends who, although well 
provided for in that line, were, on account of their great 
love for me, ready to invest in more insurance. One very 
dear friend to whom I thought I had convincingly set forth 
the advantages and inducements my company offered, and 
why a woman of her environments and temperament would 
profit by taking out a policy therein, and who had, in turn, 
eloquently acquiesced and expressed her desire and de- 
termination to subscribe, had at the conclusion of two 
weeks, the time appointed for the issuing of the policy, pre- 
pared such an eloquent speech in support of a demurrer, 
that, after listening in amazement to it, I threw aside my 
insurance outfit in disgust, purchased hook and overalls and 
sought employment among the dock laborers. 

It was in 1892 that the Ward Steamship Company of 
New York terminated a series of strikes among its dock 
laborers and stevedores, entailing great financial loss, by 
substituting Negro labor for Irish and Italian. The Irish- 
man is the very embodiment of discontent, the instigator of 


nearly all the troubles in the labor field, the inaugurator of 
political upheavals and race clashings. Ever ready to strike 
for higher wages and shorter hours, the Irishman would 
burn his own dwelling from over his head if he thought 
that thereby he might do injury to an unyielding employer. 
The Ward Steamship Company, financially embarassed by 
frequent revolutions in its labor department, and at the 
mercy of labor unions had yielded step by step until the 
longshoreman's pay had advanced from thirty to forty-five 
cents an hour. But the demand for fifty cents was the straw 
that broke the camel's back. The Italians who, with diffi- 
culty supplanted the Irish and went into the holds of the 
ships to work for twenty-five cents per hour, were not suffi- 
ciently bulky nor experienced to insure independence of the 
lusty son of Erin, and the Negro, who, previous to this 
time, had only been allowed to step in here and there along 
the water front, was called in to take charge of the work of 
loading and discharging the great ships of the Ward Steam- 
ship Company. The Negro workman, pushing out over 
the North and West, is confronted by more serious and 
exasperating obstacles than any other human creature. 
Securing work in big corporations only as a strike-breaker, 
he, in many instances, has only been retained until the white 
man chose to return to work. But the Ward Steamship 
Company had called to its rescue, men schooled in Yankee 
duplicity, who did not "turn to" until this very important 
matter was settled. But the scale of wages made by the 
Italian strike-breaker was not advanced in favor of the 
efficient black stevedore. And the twelve years of unpre- 
cedented prosperity, during which the company has had to 
double its carrying capacity by adding in its fleet several 
large and more commodious ships, an advance in wages 
from twenty-five cents an hour so far has never been 
offered these benefactors, who freed the company from 
the meshes of labor unions, brought order out of chaos and 
started them on the road to prosperity. It must not be con- 
ceded that because of its rough character, the work of 
the stevedore is a calling that does not require intelligence, 
cool-headedness and skill ; for without coolness and thor- 
ough knowledge on the part of those appointed to direct it, 

the work of loading and unloading these great ships would 
be attended by far greater loss of life and limb than is now 
recorded. It was a cold morning in the month of February 
when I joined the anxious crowd of laborers at Pier 15, 
East River, Brooklyn side, waiting to be "shaped." To be 
shaped is to secure at the timekeeper's window a brass 
check with a number engraved upon it, which is written in 
his book opposite your name, and passing the foreman who 
engages you, you call out this number, which is jotted down 
in his book. On quitting work each man calls out his num- 
ber to the timekeeper, and returning, reports both to time- 
keeper and foreman. "Push in," said a sympathetic fellow, 
noticing my embarrassment, "your chance may be as good 
as the oldest ; no man has a cinch here." 

"Stand in line and take your turn," said another man, as 
he noticed me endeavoring to push my truck past the fel- 
low in front of me. "The Irishman tries to make a job 
last as long as possible, while the Negro sings and runs 
himself out of work." My first day's work consisted of 
unloading fruit and pig lead; and as I climbed the hill 
homeward at the conclusion of the day my limbs almost 
refused to support me. The following day, still sore and 
stiff from the previous day's toil, I reported again at Pier 
15, and by sheer ambition trudged through another day of 
the hardest toil of my life. In discharging ships, foremen 
may employ as many as twenty men in their gangs, but they 
dwindle to sixteen when loading. Failing to get a "shape" 
on the third day, I wended my way back home to return in 
the evening to try my luck with the night gangs. To my 
mind, it requires more than ordinary courage on the part 
of a new and inexperienced hand to join a company of men 
going into a ship's hold to store freight, aided only by the 
light of lanterns. The gang in which I worked began in 
the ship's hold to be shifted to the docks, and from thence 
off shore to hoist freight from one of the many lighters 
which flanked the great vessel. The angry, black waters, 
lashed into fury by the fierce cold winds, seemed anxiously 
waiting to swallow into its depths the timid wretch who, 
stumbling blindly over the many pitfalls, chanced to miss 
his footing. This, together with the oaths of the experi- 


enced and unsympathetic workmen, the ear-piercing calls 
of the gangwayman, the deafening roar of machinery so 
exasperated and confused me that I was tempted to climb 
back upon the dock and scamper off for home. But as the 
night grew old and the owl-like hoot of craft in the great 
harbor lessened, the lights in the distant towers went out 
one by one and the great bridge, no longer disturbed by 
moving cars and the tread of restless feet, stood there calm 
and tranquil in the glimmering shadows, I became more 
reconciled to my surroundings and the task became less irk- 
some. Current stories of crime, of midnight assassinations, 
of suicides, give New York harbor at dead of night a weird 
and fantastic aspect. Yet in spite of all this it is a fasci- 
nating sight. I soon discovered that one man's chances 
were not, if green, as good as another old and experienced 
hand, and justly so. The mastery of stevedore work is as 
difficult a task as the mastery of algebra, it seems to me. 
It was perfectly natural for the foremen to cull out the men 
whom they knew could do creditable work. My first em- 
ployer was Capt. John Simonds (colored), who was doubt- 
less moved more by my willingness than my value as a 
workman, and though I got in now and then with Powell, 
with Rainey and with Butler, it seemed less difficult to shape 
with Simonds. For quite a month or more I beat about the 
decks, following the gangs from pier to pier and from sugar 
house to sugar house with varying luck. One evening at 
Erie Basin, I joined the gang of a foreman whom they 
called "Buster Brown." "Buster Brown" was a wild, swear- 
ing Negro of the Guinea type, with protruding forehead, 
staring eyes and heavy lips that could utter oaths and filthy 
epithets that would put a pirate to blush. Brown was the 
type of Negro indespensable to the overseer of the slave 
plantation, who wished to wring out the very last drop of 
blood from his chattels; who often as "drivers" strung up 
and lashed their own mothers. It is a type of native used by 
the British now plundering South Africa, to get the most 
out of the workers in the mines. This fellow kept the air 
lurid with oaths and vulgarity, buldozing the men, threat- 
ening them with his fist and with his gun, and in turn cring- 
ing like a cur when addressed by the white supervisor. I 


looked at this Negro both in pity and disgust and wondered 
what kind of a home it was over which he presided. 
Although the night was cold and men were constantly 
dropping out to warm up at a near-by saloon, I stuck to my 
post lest the impetuosity of this foreman tempt me to lay 
his thick head upon the dock and thereby lose a night's 
work. Fortunately, "Buster Brown" is not the prevailing 
type of stevedore; I found a sufficient number of sober, in- 
dustrious and goodly disposed men engaged in work there 
to make it quite a pleasant place to be. There are many 
incidents during my employ there on the docks that I re- 
call with pleasure, for I believe the Negro works with a 
lighter heart, and infuses more music and fun into labor 
than any other human being. Most of these men are from 
Virginia and the Carolinas, where music and laughter drive 
away the irksomeness of toil. No group of men was with- 
out its jester, who was often a Godsend to the discouraged 
and melancholy. I recall with a great deal of mirth the 
side-splitting jokes gotten off by "Squire Rigger" on 
"Sheep" and "Sheep's" witty retorts and sarcastic flings at 
"Rabbit," or Philip Hooper's droll, yet mirth-provoking 
tales of his adventures. Phil had traveled extensively and 
worked at nearly every imaginable calling in the labor 
world, and his retentive memory was never taxed for some 
interesting, instructive and yet amusing story. 



To Mr. Jno. E. Robinson, Ed. of The "Mirror." 

To some of us who had lived South where most city 
streets are wide sandy deserts, the first invasion of Broad- 
way, New York, was not without a feeling of disappoint- 
ment; for this lovely old thoroughfare which, beginning 
at Battery Park, winds like a river northward through 
Manhattan Island is anything but "broad." Often as I 
stood upon the curbstone of this overcrowded street, have I 
imagined that I could hear its painful cry of protest as it 
groaned under the weight of traffic, and wishing that the 
clumsy vehicles of commerce might be driven into some 
other avenue, so that the stranger, proud of its fame might 
with less annoyance and apprehension feast his eyes upon 
the historic landmarks that border it on either side. When 
I first behold Broadway, Jake Sharp's bribery had deprived 
it somewhi t of its attractiveness ; for the horse-car had just 
invaded it, adding to the congestion and consequent discom- 
fort of pedestrians, and changing it from the aristocratic 
highway of hansom cabs of former times. 

In spite of the protest of the citizens of the great 
metropolis, "cabby," with his smart livery, his soft, suave 
and polite "want-a-cab ?" was to be forever hushed by the 
ear-piercing jingle of the car bells and the coarse yells of 
the driver. But this change did not rob the old thorough- 
fare of its interest and power to fascinate and charm, for 
the people soon forgot this "wanton disregard for our 
wishes" and became reconciled to the new order of things. 
And how the old street has grown in beauty and grandeur 
within the last twenty years ! Now it's "The Great White 
Way" of modern structures of marble and granite. Have 
you ever walked the streets of New York without a home? 
A stroll along Broadway drives away melancholy and 


makes the homeless and despised forgetful of his misery; 
for there is an inexplicable feeling of warmth in the glow 
of its myriads of electric lights, and the winter snow that 
falls on Broadway seems to hit the cheeks with apologetic 

The homeless outcast from beneath the chilly glare of 
the lights of Fifth Avenue, where he is jostled aside by the 
footmen and run down by the luxuriant coaches of haughty 
millionaires is often saved from a suicide's grave by the 
warmth and cheer dispensed by the lights of Broadway. 
Broadway, where sympathies are blended and everybody is 
kin; where the recluse crawls out of his shell; where the 
miser loosens his purse strings and for the time being is a 
jolly good fellow. Broadway is the lane of comedy, comedy 
that flows in such immense volume that tragedy the most re- 
volting, can only cause a momentary ebb. It is said by some 
people that in handsomely gowned and pretty colored Amer- 
ican girls, Chicago outclasses New York. But I wonder if 
any of these alleged authorities ever stood for an hour or 
more on upper Broadway at the junction of Sixth Avenue 
and Thirty-third Street, or lined up with the "chappies" in 
front of St. Mark's at the close of an afternoon Sunday 
lyceum service to watch the parade of beauty. I am entitled 
to a vote on this question. I have strolled the fashionable 
thoroughfares of nearly all the large American cities. But 
for wealth of beauty, and of raiment, for the bounti fulness 
of pleasure and revelry of mirth and good cheer, give me 
dear old Broadway, fraught with sweet, bitter memories. 



To the Editor of "The Standard Union' 

In the days of slavery few plantations in the South were 
without their Negro spiritual advisers, men devout, chosen 
from among their fellow bondsmen, who were permitted to 
go freely from plantation to plantation to pray and exhort 
among their brethren. In many communities in North 
Carolina master and slave worshipped in the same church, 
the whites monopolizing the mornings and evenings of the 
First Day, while in the afternoons the Negro from the same 
pulpit preached to his own people. Very often during these 
services the master sat in the audience an attentive and 
reverent worshiper; for there was a pathos in the mourn- 
ful music of the slave, an emotion that permeated his preach- 
ing and his prayers that strangely fascinated the dominant 
race in those days. It must have been a strange and won- 
derful sight to the white man to witness the fervency with 
which the slave worshiped the God who had so permitted it 
that he owned not himself ; to see shackel hands raised in 
exaltation, and tears of joy unspeakable streaming down 
cheeks furrowed and scarred by hardship. The intense en- 
joyment of these brief intervals of freedom to worship God 
on the part of his chattels doubtless had the effect of easing 
the conscience of the oppressor and justified the institution. 
The master thoroughly enjoyed the worship of the slave, 
especially his singing. He often lingered about the church 
door to catch the last strains of the plaintive melody that 
gushed from bleeding hearts. The song of the captive 
mourning for his lover, ruthlessly sold away to some dis- 
tant land, was prompted by far different emotions than the 
shouts from "corn shuckings," but the effect was the same 
upon the ear of the calloused oppressor whose descendants 


now regard the slave regime as a benefaction. This fixed 
time for the worship of the slave in North Carolina did not 
debar him from a place in galleries when his master wor- 
shiped. The eloquence that floated out from the lips of 
the cultured and refined ministry and the music of trained 
voices in the choir loft were listened to with great profit 
by the captive, destined some day not only to own himself 
but his church and his pew, for at the close of the war the 
number of negroes in the South who knew more than the 
mere rudiments of music was surprising. And as there was 
a strong desire on the part of the race to discard plantation 
melodies, reminders of cruel bondage, and learn classical 
music, he who could teach vocal music had an inviting field 
in which to work. The town of New Berne, N. C, for 
many years after the war was noted for the great love for 
music among its colored people, the major portion of the 
Sunday service in every church and schoolhouse being de- 
voted to the teaching of vocal music. And now there are 
but few colored people hailing from that section of the old 
North State that cannot both read and sing music. 

But as in most colored churches, collections are lifted to 
the accompaniment of vocal music to the overtaxing of 
choirs, the plantation song has not entirely lost its popularity, 
and the composer of rude religious ballads is still to be 
reckoned among the indispensible adjuncts in the spreading 
of the Gospel. In some districts among the African Metho- 
dist people the minister who can sing well, as well as 
preach well, has a more satisfactory financial report to pre- 
sent at the annual conference than he who has but the one 
talent. The most popular and successful composer of sacred 
ballads I recall was one, the Rev. Mr. Hunter, of the Zion 
Methodist connection, whose "Go Down, Moses," "Oh, 
Daniel," etc., electrified the worshipers of old "Christian 
Chapel," in Wilmington, North Carolina, so many years ago. 
When Dr. Hunter came to town and stood in the pulpit of 
the old chapel, the choir was for the time being forgotten by 
the audience in their eagerness to catch the melody and fol- 
low in the strain of new song sure to issue from the mouth 
of this great singer. But in our more modern pulpits, 
especially in the North, taste for the classic and refined in 


music is on the ascendancy. And we can safely consider 
Dr. F. M. Jacobs, of the Zion Methodist Church, in Bridge 
Street, as among the foremost exponents of this gratifying 
regime. Although Dr. Jacobs is not without a love for the 
old slave melodies, which he can sing with the zest of the 
most ardent Methodist, he is more in love with the classic 
and refined, and is as much at home in the rendition of 
'Inflammatus," by Rossini, as the simplest Negro melody. 
Paul Fulton, the new choirmaster of the Zion Memorial 
Church choir, born in Cumberland County, N. C, and edu- 
cated in the public schools of Wilmington, received his 
musical training under Mrs. Janet Gay Dodge, one of the 
most proficient, thorough and painstaking teachers of the 
art that ever went South from New England. For a num- 
ber of years Mr. Fulton trained and was at the head of one 
of the best organizations of male voices in the State of 
North Carolina. But since he has lived North he has taken 
up but little time with the music world. The disinclination 
of Negro churches to pay singers gives to choristers an 
abundant amount of care and worry in the training of 
volunteers who are mostly amateurs. This state of things 
has worked to the detriment of choristers who are often 
over taxed and worn out leading choruses, prompted in 
many instances by the ambition to be the stars. Mr. Ful- 
ton's method is to train each individual singer to be self 
dependent, and thereby have a choir that will not be com- 
pelled to lean upon its chorister. Those who shall visit Zion 
Memorial Church during the coming season will have the 
pleasure of enjoying some novel and entertaining musical 



Of Atlanta, Georgia, as Published in the Brooklyn Daily 


Chicago, September 3d. 

The University of Chicago held its forty-eighth con- 
vention and the principal speaker from abroad was John 
Temple Graves, of Atlanta. He spoke on "The Problem 
of the Races," and his long address will probably cause a 
furor throughout the country. Mr. Graves made a great 
reputation for oratory at Chautauqua at the lynching con- 
ference, but his address to-day was of a different nature. 
He gave a complete exposition of the race problem as the 
South sees it; its causes, effect, and his theory of its solu- 
tion. Mr. Graves' main points were that the only solution 
possible is the complete separation of the races ; that the 
Negroes ought to have free transportation to the Philip- 
pines; that the Islands should be turned over to them for 
their own absolute control as a state ; that no whites should 
vote there and no negroes should vote here ; that the South 
could get along without them, because the last census shows 
the Negroes have not had a majority share in the raising of 
crops recently. 

Mr. Graves said in part : "Fortunate am I, and happy in 
that I bring the convictions of this hour to a platform so 
free and to an atmosphere so impartial. Questions of ab- 
stract policy — problems of humanity — bearing a hint of 
section or a complication of party are not for the ears of 
faction or for the passing of politics. Upon the fierce and 
heated bosom of established prejudice the cold stream of 
reason falls too frequently to steam and hissing, and men 
who have convictions that are rather definite than popular 


may thank God for the calmer air of universities and for 
the clear and unbiased minds of students seeking truth." 

Then Mr. Graves went on to state his problem — the condi- 
tions in the last forty years that brought the race matter to 
the fore. The freeing of the slaves and making them the 
equal of their former masters made two opposite, unequal, 
and antagonistic races stand side by side. He said the 
equation was this: "There they are — master and slave — 
civilized and half-civilized, strong and weak, conquoring 
and servile, twentieth century and twelfth century — thirteen 
hundred years apart — set by a strange and incomprehensible 
edict of statesmanship or of passion set by the Constitution 
and the law, the weakest race on earth and the strongest 
race on earth, side by side, on equal terms to bear an equal 
part in the conduct and responsibility of the greatest gov- 
ernment the world ever saw. It was an experiment without 
a precedent in history and without a promise in the annals 
of man. The experiment has had thirty-eight years of trial, 
backed by the power of the Federal Government and by the 
sympathy of the world. It has failed. From the beginning 
to the hour that holds us, it has failed. 

"In a land of light and liberty, in an age of enlightenment 
and law, the women of the South are prisoners to danger 
and to fear. While your women may walk from suburb 
to suburb and from township to township without an escort 
and without alarm, there is not a woman of the South — 
wife or daughter — who would be permitted, or who would 
dare, to walk at twilight unguarded through the residence 
streets of a populous town or to ride the outside highways 
at midday." 



To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

I was quite a small boy when, in 1874, three men entered 
the school of which I was a pupil and announced the death 
of Charles Sumner, a name which but few of us had ever 
heard. "Charles Sumner is dead!" was the first sentence 
uttered by the first speaker, who went on to tell us how 


deeply the Nation was affected by the death of this good 
man. "Who was Charles Sumner, and what of him?" was 
the query that went from pupil to pupil, for the stranger in 
his eulogy did not satisfactorily enlighten us on that point. 
The fact that we had not heard of him then makes his 
name dearer to me now as I recall that eventful incident, 
for Charles Sumner shall be numbered with the elect and 
precious who shall inquire of the King in that day: "Lord, 
when saw we thee a hungered and fed thee? or thirsty and 
gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger and took 
thee in? or naked and clothed thee?" And the King shall 
answer and say unto them, " 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, 
in as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these 
my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' " This man had 
given his best days, given his best energies contending for 
the rights of a race too ignorant and obscure to even realize 
that such efforts were being put forth in their behalf, or 
that such a man as Charles Sumner existed. It is upon 
such characters that a strong nation rests, for it takes 
such to build a strong nation and uphold it; men who did 
right because it was right ; men who were willing to do and 
dare for the oppressed from whom there could come no 
earthly reward. Such characters grow in magnitude as 
the years recede, and men come to understand the truths 
they championed. Many of those who listened to the speech 
delivered by John Temple Graves at the Chicago University 
a few days ago, have doubtless visited Lincoln Park in that 
city, to gaze upon the rugged features of that great leader 
of men whose bronze statue stands there looking sadly 
down upon the throngs that pass it. Their minds must 
move back to his early career in Illinois, and his many com- 
bats with Stephen A. Douglass, Douglass the invincible, 
who could lie like truth, to whom Lincoln was no match as 
an orator. Yet the name of Lincoln, who believed in right- 
eousness and simple truth, will live in the hearts of the 
American people when that of Douglass is forgotten. Such 
men as Lincoln never boasted of a "white man's country;" 
but the burden of their prayers was that "nation of the 
people, for the people and by the people might not perish 
from the land." When the nations of the old world think 


of the greatness and grand achievements of this Republic, 
such characters as Lincoln, Phillips, Sumner, Whittier, 
Beecher, Garrison stand out as the bulwarks upon which it 
rests, and not of those who have contributed the least, and 
yet are doing the most boasting. What did the people of 
Chicago assemble for to hear, a rational being, a man 
clothed in his right mind ? Or was it not rather to listen to 
a man who had lain down in Georgia and dreamed a dream, 
and before fully awakened from the stupor of a long sleep, 
stalked forth to relate it? Suppose there was a possi- 
bility of carrying Mr. Graves' colonizing scheme into execu- 
tion, how long would it be before there would be a John 
Temple Graves in the Philippines, whining for the separa- 
tion of races and saying, "This is a white man's country." 
The white man is there now, grabbing land, speculating, 
stirring up race hatred and mongrelizing an already mon- 
grel people. Is not Governor Taft unpopular over there 
because he desired to give the Filipino a say-so in the gov- 
ernment of his own country? Where is there a domain 
from the dense interior of darkest Africa to the Land of the 
Midnight Sun that Mr. Graves' race is not found, subju- 
gating, killing and tyranizing? The Negro cannot walk 
on the sidewalks in the Transvaal. That's a white man's 
country, too. That "all conquoring race" Mr. Graves boasts 
of is everywhere, seeking to turn the world into a trust and 
kick all the other races off of it. "Civilizing and Christian- 
izing," you say? It is no satisfaction to me to behold in the 
jungles of Patigonia the Christian(?) white man's cottage 
where the hut of the savage once stood when I reflect upon 
the fact that to put that cottage there it cost the lives of 
perhaps a thousand human beings, fashioned by the hand of 
God to live on this earth and enjoy unmolested a persuit 
of happiness. What manner of people are those to whom 
the sweetest music is the groans and wails of the suffering, 
and to whose feet the softest cushion is the neck of the 
down-trodden? Where shall rest be found? The view of 
the distinguished gentleman from Georgia is that it's to be 
found neither in Heaven nor Hell for any race but the 
white race. His conception of such things is so narrow and 
contracted that his people must have the right of way be- 


cause God did not call the worlds into existence without 
consulting them, neither can God run the universe without 
them. In Paradise the white man is to occupy all the front 
seats by the Jasper Sea, and the darker races must stand 
behind and fan him. And if he should be so unfortunate 
as to go to Hell he will seek a nigger or a Chinaman to 
hold between him and the fire. It's passing strange that 
Mr. Graves allowed the Almighty to create all these weaker 
races for his people to look after and keep in their places. 
It would have saved the white man from the commission of 
many a black sin had God created the whole world solely 
for him to bustle in. 

"In a land of light and liberty the women of the South 
are prisoners to fear," etc. Now this assertion, when read, 
will be more startling to the women of Atlanta than to 
Mr. Graves' Chicago audience. The white woman may 
walk from "suburb to suburb" with far more safety in 
Atlanta than in Chicago. To say that the Southern white 
woman is unsafe because of the presence of the Negro is a 
damaging misstatement. The Southern lady of wealth is 
continually surrounded by her trusted colored servants, 
male and female, and her environments have always been 
such as to render her as fearless of the Negro as a pet cat. 
Until they were past the age of twenty, the only escort to 
teas and to parties and such like the daughters of one of 
the leading merchants of my native town had was their 
Negro butler. No one turned to gaze after the wife of 
another prominent citizen of that town who thought noth- 
ing of going through the streets leaning upon the arm of 
her Negro butler. Mr. Graves, in order to strengthen his 
colonization theory, would malign the women of his race. 

Brooklyn, Sept. 19th, 1903. 



To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle": 

As Decoration Day draws nigh, recollections of the strug- 
gle of 1861, which so tried the two sections of our coun- 
try, become more vivid, and the many years that have 
passed since then seem less distant. The veteran in his 
faded coat of blue, his rugged visage and empty sleeve; 
the militiaman in brilliant uniform; citizens in holiday 
attire, booming cannon and martial music, give to that par- 
ticular day a significance which apparently no other day 
possesses. While in the North we celebrate in gala attire 
and bands and drum corps blare out patriotic airs, in the 
South the observance is in striking contrast ; all is funereal, 
solemn and sedate. With arms reversed, the veteran, with 
slow and measured tread follows behind muffled drums and 
bands play dirges, while choirs sing most solemn and touch- 
ing music. While the 30th of May is universally observed 
for the decoration of the graves of Union dead, the Daugh- 
ters of the Confederacy and other such organizations in the 
South, although such a day is observed in every Southern 
State, do not move in concert. In the far Southern States, 
where spring puts on her richest attire in early April, Con- 
federate graves are decorated in that month, while in States 
further North, a day in May is observed. In North Caro- 
lina it is the 10th of May; in Virginia, it's the 30th. This 
is an observance of the most intense interest to lovers of 
the "Lost Cause." An air of profound sadness and thought- 
fulness pervades the very atmosphere, and the gray veteran 
again salutes the "Stars and Bars" which hang in profusion 
about the speakers' stand and wave above the Confederate 
dead. Father Ryan's famous poem, "The Conquored Ban- 
ner," is recited with a pathos that is touching. Old wounds 
bleed a-fresh as impassioned orators tell of the causes that 
led up to the struggle; the justness of the Southern side and 
the bravery of the Southern soldier. Pickett's gallant 
charge at Gettysburg is rehearsed with fervor; what might 
have been gained to the South on that gory field had Lee 


listened to the advice of Longstreet is also regretfully told, 
together with the story of the foolhardiness of Sidney 
Johnston at Shiloh, which lost the West to the Confederacy. 
But on the 30th of May, when Union soldiers' graves are 
decorated, a different program is rendered. There, over 
those grass-covered mounds, other orators — nowadays 
mostly colored men — tell of the victories of the "Silent 
Man" at Donaldson, at Shiloh, at Vicksburg, at Chat- 
tanooga, at Petersburg and Richmond, and of of Sherman's 
famous March to the Sea. The decoration of these graves 
is, and has ever been, done almost solely by Afro-American 
women. And when we consider the fact that nearly all of 
the men who fell in that awful struggle sleep South of 
Mason's and Dixon's line, we can appreciate the importance 
of the part the Afro- American woman plays in this work 
of love. At Richmond, Culpepper, Wilmington, Salisbury, 
Salisbury, S. C, Nashville, Chattanooga, Memphis and 
other places beneath acres upon acres of grass-covered 

"Asleep are the ranks of the dead" — Union dead. The 
Government provides only for the placing of a small Amer- 
ican flag on that day upon each headstone, no more. But 
it is the loving hand of black woman and child that places 
the rose, the jasmine, the lilac and forget-me-not there, with 
wreathes of cedar and of pine ; so that wafted upon the 
breeze which comes upward from that hallowed ground is 
the breath of sweet flowers. What shall be done for this 
obscure Schunamite who, for so many years, has faithfully 
performed this work of love? "Shall we mention her to 
the King? or shall we ship her to the Philippines? The 
Grand Army veteran will doubtless say "No," when he 
looks backward and thinks of Andersonville, Libbey, Flor- 
ence and Danville, and of the fate that might have been his 
had it not been for the devotion of some colored woman or 
boy who hid him in kitchen loft or barn or hay stack, from 
the heartless rebel, and under cover of darkness, piloted him 
safely into Union lines. 

"Oh Lord of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget." 
To the Afro-American woman of the South on that day 


will come vivid recollections of the inexplicable gloom that 
pervaded the land everywhere when John Brown went to 
the scaffold, or the excitement attending the bombardment 
of Fort Sumpter, the hastening northward of the soldier 
in gray, of the constant scudding off of husband, brother or 
father to break through rebel lines to fight on "the Lord's 
side." She will hear again the sad wail of the massacred at 
Fort Pillow, see those black forms dashing toward the 
parapets of Fort Wagner and hear again the thunderings 
of the awful crater at Petersburg. With this must come 
the consoling thought that she has done what she could. 
For among those sleeping heroes her husband, her brother, 
her father is lying, having given up their lives that "a 
nation of the people, for the people, and by the people, 
might not perish from the land." 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

It is very unfortunate that such a valuable citizen as 
Andrew H. Green should be the target for a crazed Negro's 
revolver, while the real sinner escaped to bring him into 
nauseating prominence at this late date. How soothing it 
would have been to Mr. Green's friends, whose confidence 
in his integrity, no doubt, was somewhat shaken by the man- 
ner of his taking off, had this man stood over his coffin and 
told what he tells now. While I am not in sympathy with 
Mrs. Elias' manner of living, I believe that others will 
agree with me that for farsightedness, sagacity and busi- 
ness tact, Hannah Elias is a twentieth century wonder. 
Nine-tenths of those who are pounding her would, no 
doubt, like to be as fortunate. Many attractive women are 
living in luxury at the expense of such old sinners as Piatt. 
His bid for sympathy on the ground that he did not know 
that the woman was a Negress, is rendered ridiculous by 


his own statement concerning the visit of his friends from 
the West who, after being shown the white joints of the 
Tenderloin, were not satisfied until they had "done the coon 
joints." A certain class of men are not satisfied in visit- 
ing any town North, South, East or West, unless they have 
paid their respects to the "coon joints." In such a resort, 
Mr. Piatt met Mrs. Elias. He confesses that to his sor- 
row he lost sight of her, and found her again through an 
advertisement of massage treatment for rheumatism, by 
which treatment he was cured. Those of the medical pro- 
fession will bear me out in the assertion that physicians 
who command the largest fees are specialists. Mr. Piatt, 
who had rheumatism — a very unpleasant, yet aggrivating 
malady — had doubtless before meeting Mrs. Elias, spent 
large sums of money to effect a cure and failed. Mrs. 
Elias cured him ! Such a tormenting disease cured ! Should 
it be wondered at that a rich old man whose life had been 
thus prolonged, paid handsomely for it, and that he re- 
turned frequently for treatment lest the malady return? Is 
not such a man an ingrate who would seek to beat a poor 
woman out of the paltry sum of $685,000, which she had 
earned by performing such a miraculous cure? Was the 
old gentleman in his right mind when he paid these large 
fees and gave such handsome presents ? Yes. Yes. Then, 
has he been robbed ? No ! Mr. Piatt is as much against 
social equality as Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, and is doubt- 
less as opposed to his daughter sitting in close proximity to 
a Negro woman in a public conveyance. But I don't think 
he agrees with the Honorable John Temple Graves, that the 
races should be separated. Suppose we prove that this 
woman got her wealth dishonestly; is this an excuse for a 
howling mob about her door ? There are men living in that 
community worth individually from eighty to a hundred 
millions, and men possessing such wealth have dishonestly 
gotten other people's money. Is there anybody up there 
seeking to serve papers on them ? Are there howling mobs 
standing night and day about their premises? For Chris- 
tian shame! Now Mrs. Elias, who is a wealthy taxpayer, 
is entitled to police protection, and should have it. 
Brooklyn, June 7th, 1904. 



To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

I have had the pleasure of reading three installments of 
Br. Hamlin Abbott's contributions to the Outlook on the 
Negro problem. Mr. Abbott is, indeed, a logical, instructive 
and entertaining writer, original in many respects in his way 
of putting things, and I believe he is earnestly trying to de- 
vise some means of settling a perplexing question. But he 
who reads between the lines may see that Mr. Abbott does 
not possess sufficient virtue to lift him out of the beaten path 
and contemplate his fellow citizen from human view point, 
rather than as a problem that a white man must settle. The 
disposition to kick the under dog is as old as the human 
race. I often think of Charles Dickens' story of that 
wretched boy, Oliver Twist, chased by a wild mob through 
the streets of London, headed by the real thief, to be 
"stopped at last," struck down by a coward and dragged 
off to prison with no one near to pity or protest. I see a 
lone woman, pursued by a thousand men for over a hun- 
dred miles through the swamps and marshes of Mississippi, 
that they might have the pleasure of seeing her suffer the 
most shocking death. While in New York, men, women 
and children to the number of ten thousand seek to tear, as 
it were, to pieces another, because she had committed the 
crime of living in luxury. This is the problem, woefully 
perplexing. I trust that Mr. Abbott may see the wisdom of 
dropping the threadbare Negro question and give to his 
readers a few contributions on the more intensely interest- 
ing subject, the poor white, the indented slave, the ticket 
of leave man, over whom the tide of progress has rolled 
for centuries without making but little impression ; the 
creature that allowed the Negro to break off his shackles 
and outstrip him in the moral and intellectual and financial 
race, and actuated by envy, keeps the South in turmoil. Mr. 
Abbott will find this an almost exhaustless subject. In the 
dismal fastness of the Gulf States, in the mountainous 
regions of western North Carolina, east Tennessee, the Vir- 
ginias and Kentucky can be found material for the turn- 
ing out of immense volumes of matter as thrilling and 


interesting as the adventures of "Dare Devil Dick." For 
there, daily, dramas in real life are enacted that need no 
stage settings to add to their effectiveness upon the stranger 
and the unitiated. There, ambushed assassinations are of 
daily occurrence and vengeance is the law of the land. I 
would advise Mr. Abbott to visit these sections and write 
something really interesting. But I would say here that he 
who would assay to chronicle the doings of these people 
from the premises is likely to be called from labor to re- 
freshment at any moment. What a ripe field for mission- 
ary work? But the missionary will find the work of con- 
verting this people more difficult than changing the wildest 
Patagonian, because they are all Bible-reading heathen — 
people who can repeat chapter after chapter, who know by 
heart the Ten Commandments and the Beatitudes and 
attend religious services regularly. Yet out of this great 
Book, so full of beautiful precepts, they have extracted this 
one creed — "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." 
There the preacher and the deacon are as quick on the trig- 
ger as the meanest moonshiner; there a quarrel over a 
horse swap or a pig has resulted in feuds that have never 
ceased until an entire generation has been wiped out. Mr. 
Abbott is letting pass an opportunity that an angel might 

Brooklyn, June 25th, 1904. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

When Rome was mistress of the world, and her bar- 
barian captives were butchered to make holidays, in the 
vast ampitheatres where these brutal exhibitions took place, 
women composed a large percentage of the audiences that 
assembled there to gloat over the sight of human blood. 
Women were often butchered there, and little babes oft 
with prayers upon their lips ruthlessly torn to pieces. But 
we can safely say that in these feasts of blood, women were 
not executioners, although they were unmoved by the cruel 


taking off of their own sex. We can therefore rest assured 
that what took place in a small town in the State of Mis- 
sissippi a few days ago would have made pagan Rome look 
aghast and called forth a cry of indignation that would 
shaken the very temple of the Caesars. In that Mississippi 
community, before an assemblage of ten thousand people, a 
child of tender age was made to tie a rope about a man's 
neck and lead him to his self-appointed executioners, who 
terrorized the State by their wanton disregard for law and 
order. The killing of that wretch in this manner was, per- 
haps, the only way to pacify that perturbed community, but 
the memory of that awful scene must ever haunt that child, 
at least until its little heart and conscience have become cal- 
loused. There is no question but that these people were 
wrought up to the highest pitch over the awfulness of the 
alleged crime ; so was King David of Israel over the story 
told by the prophet Nathan of the rich man who had cruelly 
taken the poor man's lamb and dressed it for his own 
guests. "And David's anger was greatly kindled against 
the man : and he said unto Nathan as the Lord liveth the 
man that has done this thing shall surely die. And he shall 
restore the lamb fourfold because he did this thing and 
because he had no pity. And Nathan said unto David, 
Thou art the man !" For the King had killed Uriah the 
Hitite and had taken his wife. Who are these men shout- 
ing for virtue and purity? No Negro woman of the South, 
no Negro child of tender age has as yet been enabled to 
successfully indict a man of the dominant race who seeks 
by law and custom to hedge in one woman and destroy an- 
other. Why can't these champions consider the various 
definitions of the term "assault"? The Negro possesses the 
same propensities of any other creature of the human race, 
and in the South his environments are such that he can- 
not with impunity defend his own wife, mother or sweet- 
heart from insult and violence. Now imagine this crowd, 
intimidated being, running amuck, terrozing communities 
and making women and children unsafe. These two ex- 
tremely different traits of character do not exist in a man 
situated as the Southern Negro. A man is likely to take 
such liberties where there is most familiarity; where social 


laws are not so rigidly adhered to, and the man who vio- 
lates the person of a woman in a community where mere 
suspicion is death, where to be within close proximity to 
where a crime of any sort is committed or attempted is 
death, is irresponsible; and in humane Northern communi- 
ties would be a subject for expert physicians. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

The recently published interview published in a Manhat- 
tan newspaper between an Atlanta correspondent and three 
returning Negroes to that city from a mob-infested section 
of Illinois, may not be an unlikely story. It should not be 
said that the Negro must return South for the very treat- 
ment he leaves it to obtain elsewhere. Yet oddily enough, 
this has been asserted by three men who had tried the North 
and West. The Southern people should not, however, feel 
elated over such intelligence, for in return for oceans of 
stolen sweat, the South should accord the black man better 
treatment than he even might expect in the North and 
West. There is no place where a people expect to enjoy 
every right of citizenship more than in the home they have 
helped to build and maintain. The South is in the main 
responsible for the indignities heaped upon the dusky citizen 
elsewhere, for in return for 250 years of unrequited toil, 
he has been sent forth with a bad name to be shunned and 
persecuted by the too credulous Northerner, whose preju- 
dice is kept alive by the far-fetched press reports that pre- 
cede him. When the Negro has learned the value of a 
good name, he will then be enabled to appreciate to what 
extent the Southerner has damned him. "Who steals my 
purse steals trash." The Negro who regards people who 
continually malign him as best friends is ignorant of the 
value of a good name. Negroes differ as materially as do 
other peoples. We have (as well as the fawning sycophant, 
satisfied with any form of existence) the Fred Douglas, the 
Nat Turner, the William Still, to whom freedom with a 


crust is preferable to wealth in slavery. Such men are to- 
day pushing out over the sections of country where most 
freedom can be obtained, and where the most justice and 
equity abounds in courts of law, there is most freedom. 
The arm raised in its own defense is nerved in proportion 
to the confidence of the individual in the justness and im- 
partiality with which he and his antagonist are to be dealt 
with in a court of law, Those returning fugitives to 
Atlanta found this contrast in the North. But if they came 
North looking for and expecting "social equality" they de- 
served to be disappointed for their good. That class of 
whites with which the Negro comes socially in contact in 
the North and West does him not one particle of good 
morally, socially, interlectually nor spiritually. The black 
mother need not boast that her children play with white 
ones, and that she is the only colored resident in a com- 
munity. The offspring of the beer besotted parents with 
whom negro children are thrown in Northern communi- 
ties no more advance and elevate than the company of 
wolves, and the mother who thinks that association with 
such gamins is an advance in the social scale is ignorant and 
wanting in race pride. The white child whose association 
would uplift, is as far removed from this class of whites as 
is the Negro himself. The colored man who comes North 
feeling that the opportunity to touch glasses at bar-room 
counters with this class of white men, and to intermarry 
with women of like calibre, to the disparagement of his 
own, is a step higher in the social scale, misses the bull's 
eye by a wide margin. 

Brooklyn, August 8th, 1903. 



To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Fictionists and writers of weird tales of carpet-bag rule 
in the South are determined that the American people shall 
not forget that regime and the part the Negro played in it. 
The blunder (?) made by giving the colored man the ballot 
is to be the Nation's undying worm and unquenched fire. 
The Eagle's review of Thomas Dixon's new novel, "The 
Clansman," shows that it is a stronger appeal to race hate 
and rancor than "The Leopard's Spots," by the same author. 
What of the Negro and the reconstruction period? Why 
should much ado be made over his part in that regime? 
Honest students of history know perfectly well that under 
the then existing circumstances there was no other course 
to pursue than to give the Negro the franchise ; it was his 
certificate of manhood, his only safeguard against imme- 
diate re-enslavement. Every student of history knows also 
that the reconstruction period was, the natural and inevitable 
result of war like the War of the Rebellion. Why not go 
further back and rake those over whose bickerings brought 
the war on? The Filipino is not charged with rebellion 
against this country, yet there is a reconstruction period 
going on in the Philippine Islands. Some day a Filipino 
Thomas Dixon, Thomas Nelson Page or John Temple 
Graves will write a story of that period frought with weird 
and fantastic tales of murder, intimidation, usurpation, try- 
anny, subjugation, land-grabbing, stealing and mongreliz- 
ing. But I guess the book will not be as fascinating to 
American readers as "The Clansman." Although Mr. 
Dixon's story begins at Washington, the principal scene of 
action is South Carolina, and the writer could not have 
chosen a more fitting scene for a drama of this kind. South 
Carolina is responsible for the reconstruction period, for 
that State led off in the rebellion which necessitated such a 
regime. On the day that the Federal garrison evacuated 


Fort Sumpter, a little man in a speech to the people of 
Charleston, said, "This little State has humbled the entire 
Nation to-day," and pointing to the flag which floated over 
his head, he continued, "and this little flag now flaunting 
the breeze over us will in three months' time float over the 
Capitol at Washington!" Vain boast! If that man could 
have foreseen what took place during the four years fol- 
lowing this incident, he would doubtless have been willing to 
crawl to Washington to apologize to an insulted Nation. 
In less than three years half starved and wornout rebel sol- 
diers were cursing South Carolina for having started the 
disastrous and foolhardy fight. But we Northern sympa- 
thisers are inclined to say the South was actuated by the 
honest convictions that it was right. Why not concede the 
same to the reconstructionist? Was he not nearer right 
than the man-stealer? 

Brooklyn, January 30th, 1905. 


\_The Voice of the Negro, Atlanta, Ga.] 

The most interesting and fascinating report of murder 
trials nowadays is that of the alienist who is generally the 
prosecuting attorney's most valuable adjunct when circum- 
stantial evidence is the main channel by which conviction 
is hoped to be secured. While the average newspaper re- 
porter follows closely the proceedings of a trial, notes the 
evidence of the witnesses, the quarrels of lawyers in their 
efforts to convict or acquit, the alienist sits by and attempts 
to open up to the world's gaze the soul of the accused. 
Every lineament of the features comes under the scrutiniz- 
ing gaze of the alienist; the eyes, the forehead, the mouth, 
the chin, the ears, the hands — all of these members are 
closely studied by this wonderful reader of character and 
generally arrayed on the side of conviction. For the alien- 
ist will show that these carefully studied lineaments evi- 
dence weakness — the murder mania, that the crime for 
which the prisoner stands charged was inevitable. But 
what a saving it would be to the State and to society if such 


devils could be singled out and incarcerated before they do 
incalculable harm. Suppose the expert could discover the 
weakness of a building, warn his fellows of their danger 
and thereby prevent the awful calamities that so often take 
place in our large cities. Such service is done now and then, 
but successfully determining a person's character by study- 
ing the features is not an achievement to be relied upon. 
Yet, in the great commercial world, the habit of singling 
out men for certain callings by appearance only has driven 
many an honest fellow to despair. Thousands of honest 
men and women are daily turned from places where employ- 
ment is offered because they cannot pass under the scrutin- 
izing gaze of some expert who presumes to guage their fit- 
ness by their personal appearance. There are many honest 
men with but one suit of clothes which will in time become 
shabby, look shiny in spite of care ; there are sober men and 
honest men with nothing with which to appear as though 
they were honest "sober and reliable," who, "turned down," 
go back to their suffering families with no look of hope, 
or to end their misery by suicide. Who can successfully 
read character by either of the above-mentioned mediums? 
No one ! Yet Mr. Thomas Dixon, Jr., has undertaken to 
do that very thing in an article written in defense of the 
"Clansman," published in the September number of the 
Metropolitan, in reply to the following criticism of his lat- 
est work in a Boston paper: "He reaches the acme of his 
sectional passions when he exalts the Ku Kluz Klan into an 
association of Southern patriots, when he must know, or 
else be strangely ignorant of American history, that its 
members were as arrant ruffians, desperadoes and scoun- 
drels as ever went unhanged." This is the verdict of the 
world that has already passed into history. But Mr. 
Dixon attempts to set aside this verdict by publishing the 
pictures of some of the prominent leaders of the Ku Klux 
Klan and asks the world to forget their awful misdeeds and 
accept them as paragons of excellence because of the come- 
liness of their features. In Mr. Dixon's gallery of photo- 
graphs appears the likeness of Gen. John B. Gordon, of 
Georgia, General Forrest of Tennessee, Rev. W. W. Lan- 
dum of Atlanta, Ga. ; Hon. John W. Morton of Tennessee. 


The gentleman has included the likeness of his own father, 
the Rev. Thomas Dixon, Sr., and unwittingly brands him 
as a red-handed murderer, a kind of Dr. Jeykel and Mr. 
Hyde, who could by day preach the Gospel of a loving and 
forgiving Christ, and at night creep forth in ghastly regalia 
to assist devils in the work of murder and rapine. 

In comparing the likeness of his father with that of 
Thaddeus Stephens, Mr. Dixon says, "A study of the por- 
trait of Thaddeus Stephens, the man who created the Union 
League and sent it on its mission of revenge and confisca- 
tion, and the face of my father may settle the question as 
which of two was the desperado in this stirring drama." 
To further strengthen his defense of the Ku Klux Klan and 
its dastardly work, the reverend gentleman, in contrast to 
the handsome likenesses of some of its members, has pub- 
lished the picture of a colored man, "The lowest type of 
negro, maddened by these wild doctrines, began to grip the 
throat of the white girl with his black claws. The bestial 
looking creature whose portrait accompanies this article is 
a photograph of this type from life. It appeared in the 
first editon of my novel, 'The Leopard's Spots,' but the 
publishers were compelled to cut it out of all subsequent 
editions, because Northern readers could not endure to 
look upon the face of such a thing, even in a picture." And 
yet we come across or meet just such looking men in our 
every day life in Northern cities ; they are the trusted but- 
lers, coachmen and men of all work in nearly every aristo- 
cratic Southern home. Northern women who went South 
just after the war went about unmolested, and such women 
are still going about unmolested among such "things." In 
the month of July, while in the city of Philadelpha, I 
attended services one Sunday morning at the Wesley Metho- 
dist Church and listened to an eloquent sermon by an 
eminent Christian minister with just such a looking face as 
appears in Mr. Dixon's article. Doubtless no sweeter soul 
lived than reposed beneath that ebony skin, and no provo- 
cation however strong could induce this homely disciple, 
made in the image of his Maker, to stoop to perform the 
knavish work which Mr. Dixon boasts his father per- 




To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Now that Mr. Thomas Nelson Page has written the last 
installment of his very interesting study of the Race pro- 
blem, the question uppermost in my mind, as I ponder over 
the closing article before me, is, would Mr. Page lift a 
finger to remove one of the defects in the race he has so 
glaringly enumerated? Would not Thomas Nelson Page 
resist with all the strength of his manhood any attempt 
on the part of friend or foe to open the closet of the South- 
ern home that the skeleton which hides there might stalk 
forth in all of its ugliness? Yes! a thousand times Yes! 
An attempt at such a thing on the part of an editor in 
Memphis, Tenn., some years ago, resulted in the demolish- 
ing of his entire plant. Another such attempt at Wilming- 
ton, N. C, in 1898, resulted in the wild hunt for a fugitive 
in seven States. Looking at the situation from this view- 
point, Mr. Page occupies the positon of a giant in armor 
striking at a pigmy. If such an attack upon a neighbor 
and benefactor is Mr. Page's version of Southern chiv- 
alry and manhood, let us build a monument to Judas Iscar- 
iot and compose anthems of praise to Benedict Arnold. 
Emerging slightly from the beaten path, Mr. Page divides 
the Negro race into three classes, i. e., the respectable, the 
middling respectable and the very bad. He could have done 
much in the way of assisting that respectable element by 
using his pen in an assault upon the law just passed in the 
State of Virginia, which places such a woman as Mrs. 
Booker T. Washington on a level with the lowest of bad 
women. The gentleman reluctantly admits that the Negro 
has been an indespensible adjunct — a potent factor in build- 
ing and maintaining this republic, and yet he would deprive 
him from breathing the air he has helped to free and purify. 
To put a little more than 3,500,000 blacks in this country it 
cost Africa 40,000,000 human lives by butchery, starvation 
and drowning. A trail of blood followed the slave ships 
from Africa's shores to the American coast. Should not the 
penalty for such a horror be a more perplexing problem ? As 


is not the case with the white race, Mr. Page asserts that 
education does not improve the Negro's morals. He is a 
very low being. But listen to an attack from the mouth 
of the Rev. Mr. Dixon from quite another and unexpected 
source, in a sermon delivered in a certain Brooklyn theatre, 
Sunday, May 8th. He said: "There are villages in New 
England to-day without a religious service from January 
until December, except an occasional funeral service, where 
the Sabbath is no more regarded than by Judge Gaynor 
here, and where marriage is scarcely more regarded than by 
the people in the heart of Africa. The people have drifted, 
not into infidelity, but into licentiousness and sin upon sin, 
and they are learned and cultured," etc. These are white 
people, and the same may exist in Mr. Page's neighbor- 
hood, but he hasn't the courage to say it, neither has Rev. 
Dixon, who is a Southerner. Not many years ago in a Vir- 
ginia city, a Negro man and a white woman agreed to 
marry, and in order to avoid trouble, went to Washington, 
married there and returned. But these two honest people 
were arrested, tried and sentenced each to five years in 
prison, and the judge in sentencing them gave them a long 
and severe lecture on ethics. And yet that very judge 
maintained a Negro woman with six mulatto children with- 
in two blocks of his home. Most learned judge! Most 
excellent exponent of ethics ! He was a white man ! This 
Negro woman was the leper to be shunned. It's a great 
thing to be a white man ; it sugars over the grossest sins 
and vineers the roughest exteriors. No wonder ignorant, 
renegade Negroes are clamoring for face bleach. 



To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

When a few evenings ago I listened to an address by a 
member of the Afro-American Business League, before 
the Literary Society of the Carlton Avenue Branch of the 
Y. M. C. A., on his recent visit South, I remarked at its 
conclusion that comments on the material advancement of 
the Southern Negro in consequence of the general denial 
of the franchise, should not be indulged in by our leaders 
as a reason why he should eschew politics. But what I said 
was not favorably received by the audience, who was mis- 
led by the fierce retort of the speaker, who held that politics 
was a bane to the progress of the Southern man of color. 
I hold, however, that if the ballot is not good for the Negro, 
it is not good for the white man. If it is not good for the 
ignorant, it is not good for the learned. If it is not good 
for the poor it is not good for the rich. But I refrained 
from prolonging the argument. A few days since a pub- 
lished interview had with this gentleman by a Brooklyn 
paper's representative, relative to his Southern trip, has 
been handed me by an indignant citizen, with a request that 
I answer it. Our friend says that he stopped at many 
points (going South) long enough to acquire information 
on the condition of the Negro and the relations between 
the two races. He looked and listened in vain, he said, for 
encouragement. "But passing through the South this way, 
one is confronted with the worst phase of the problem (?) 
because the stations and depots are the centers of the sloth- 
ful, vicious and ignorant class of Negroes." The gentle- 
man saw more in Atlanta to be ashamed of than proud of, 
"for the worst of the race is in the majority and more in 
evidence, and the race is judged in the South by its worst 
side. So long as the self-respecting Negroes are in the 
minority, the slothful, vicious Negroes will be mill-stones 
about their necks." Too bad ! Too bad, indeed ! The 
Southern Negro is noted for his humble manners, gener- 


osity and hospitality, looking for the best in the storehouse 
to put before the stranger, and I am a witness to the fact 
that for preparing nice, juicy, tender, fried chicken, all 
done up in batter, the Southern Negro is peculiar. Now 
who is that so base and ungrateful as to rise from a table 
where such delicious victuals are served and "backbite" the 
neighbor who prepares it? We are, indeed, sorry that this 
gentleman could not return to the North with something 
more original and interesting to talk about. The white 
man, when he returns from the South, usually returns 
Southern hospitality by publicly saying something to please 
them, and nothing is more pleasing to the average South- 
erner than expressed sympathy for him in his very un- 
pleasant environments (all his own making) and a tirade 
against the Negro. The late Miss Frances Willard, on her 
return from a lengthy stay in the South, publicly thanked 
her Southern hosts by saying in a magazine article, "I pity 
the Southern people. The Negroes are swarming like 
locusts in Egypt, and the white man dare not leave the 
threshold of his own door," etc. A more malicious false- 
hood was never uttered against a defenceless people. The 
white man can leave the threshold of his door, and does 
leave it to cross that of the black man to scatter shame 
and ignominy, which he can do with impunity. Now why 
didn't the gentleman follow this example and kick the other 
fellow? When a few years ago ex-Gov. Northen of 
Georgia invaded Boston armed with a typewritten defence 
of the burning of Sam Hose, the Congregational Club of 
that city paid two dollars a ticket to hear an African Metho- 
dist bishop refute the charges made by the Georgian against 
his people and defend them. The members of that club 
and their friends listened in disgust to a crawling Negro 
who joined Northen in his tirade of abuse. "Thou too 
Brutus?" That very bishop is supported in luxury by those 
low( ?), vicious ( ?) Negroes, whom he was not man enough 
to defend, and they should repay him by cutting off his 
meal check. 

Now our friend could have given us more interesting 
talk had he scoured around Atlanta and made a study of 
the low whites of that section, for God has not created a 


being lower in the scale of humanity than a Georgia 
"cracker," the descendant of indentured slaves, lifted out of 
serfdom by Lincoln's proclamation. He could have found 
hordes of such creatures, sitting about, whittling sticks and 
waiting for an opportunity to commit some act of barbar- 
ism. At Nashville, which he also visited, he could have 
found more of this peculiar people to interest him, and fur- 
ther over in western North Carolina, and in the wilds of 
Kentucky he could have found material with which to have 
written a story as weird and fantastic as Haggard's "She." 
How he could have thrilled his audiences ! The good white 
people are not losing any sleep over this class amongst their 
race, neither are they "mill stones about their necks." I do 
not believe that there can be found in Atlanta or its vicinity, 
or any where in the South, Negroes low enough, base 
enough, blood-thirsty enough to plan the burning at the 
stake of a human being on the Sabbath day; to charter 
trains to run excursions to the scene 'that women and chil- 
dren might witness the shocking sight of a man's flesh be- 
ing torn from his body ere he dies, to hear the wails of a 
tormented creature, praying for death to end his misery. 
No black this side of Dahomey could have loaded his pock- 
ets with pieces of charred human flesh and minced liver and 
heart to hand around to his friends as souvenirs. Now 
until this heathen is routed out, killed off or civilized it is 
nonsense to be harping on the shortcomings of the Negro, 
who is far better. 

Brooklyn, Oct. ioth, 1903. 


To the Editor of "The New York Times" : 

There has been no act of violence in recent years in the 
South more atrocious and shameful than that of that mob 
upon the streets of New Orleans a few days ago. The 
claim of the mob and their sympathizers is that a Negro 
desperado had killed a police officer in the discharge of his 
duty. Yet there is nothing in the affair to show that Robert 


Charles, who was sitting quietly upon his doorstep when 
interfered with, was a desperate character. The title of 
"desperado," "Negro murderer," is very easily obtained in 
the South. To strike back in his own defence, even to 
save his own life, has made the Negro an outlaw in the 
South and put a price upon his head. But who were the 
desperadoes in this case? That mob of men and boys who 
terrorized New Orleans and trampled upon law and order. 
Looking over this awful event, I can see but one hero — one 
man, and that was Robert Charles. If this calm, nervy, 
deliberate black man, facing certain and ignominious death, 
and yet using his rifle with such telling effect, is not a hero, 
then let the names of the martyrs of the Alamo be erased 
from the page of history. One hundred and fifty men like 
Robert Charles and armed as he was would have brought 
that mob to its senses. David, the shepherd boy, in his 
lament over Saul and Jonathan, slain in battle against the 
tantalizing Philistines, counseled Israel to teach the chil- 
dren the use of the bow. The child should be taught that 
self-defense is as essential, as obligatory as self-respect, 
and the use of the rifle as the alphabet. 
Brooklyn, 1899. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle": 

It was indeed a happy assemblage that gathered at the 
first anniversary of the colored branch of the Young Men's 
Christian Association — happy over a most flattering show- 
ing of an organization just one year old. When an audi- 
ence is in a jovial mood its discriminating faculties become 
dormant and the applauding spirit predominates to such an 
extent that both the sublime and the ridiculous in the per- 
formance are alike encouraged. While the music and 
speech-making were creditable, some of the latter was not 
without a smack of the ridiculous. For to say to a people 


whose ancestors landed here before the Pilgrim Fathers 
that they have yet to earn their citizenship is both ridiculous 
and un-Christian. Such a thing is not said to the meanest 
emigrant. No Christian can afford to accord to the brother 
in black anything less than citizenship, and that carries with 
it a common interest in the wealth and prosperity of the 
country of which he is a citizen. It is characteristic of the 
average Afro-American to be liberal with his "Amen" and 
"That's so," but he should not give such assent to any 
speech-maker who seeks to impress the doctrine that he 
himself is the recipient of that which he had no part in 
accumulating; that he has been for two hundred and fifty 
years an idle on-looker while the white man accomplished 
everything. He who hewed down the forests, tilled the 
fields, made the breadstuffs, is just as indispensable in the 
building of a nation as he who pockets the proceeds and 
makes the laws. That power which is at work, seeking to 
in any way abridge the privileges of the black citizen is 
of the devil. It is hoped that the compromising attitude 
of one of the prominent speakers at that anniversary does 
not characterize the giver of that handsome building to the 
Carlton Acenue Branch of the Y. M. C. A., who should feel 
himself a steward of God's wealth. 
Brooklyn, May 23d, 1903. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

E. A. Corey of Statesboro, Ga., attorney for the two 
Negroes recently burned at the stake at that place, is quoted 
as saying that it was impossible to save these men ; that the 
mob, which was composed of some of the best people of 
Bulloch County, had laid their plans with precision that 
could not fail of success. God help the worst people of 
Bulloch County. We can reckon upon no best people in 
passing upon an episode of this kind. The people of the 


North should no longer allow themselves to be deluded by 
the threadbare excuses that the "atrociousness of the 
crime," etc., "roused the people to take the law into their 
own hands and meet out such punishment as a warning to 
others." Embittered by the Negro's freedom and phenom- 
enal advancement, these people need no atrocious crime to 
arouse them to intimidation, murder and tortune. Bits of 
the charred remains of these men Cato and Reade were 
packed by some of the members of the mob, and only the 
stout refusal of the express company to ship them saved 
the President from the insult of receiving these ghastly 
relics as a present from Georgia's "best people," who would 
rather burn than "his Negroes." When, in '98, six men 
under suspicion of having burned a barn were tied and shot 
to death at Palmetto, Ga., Governor Chanler excused the 
deed by saying that McKinley had insulted the South by 
sending Negroes to the Spanish-American war, and the 
sight of Negroes carrying swords and wearing bars so 
exasperated the Southern people that the deed was excus- 
able. Gov. Chanler could not shoot McKinley for insulting 
the South, so he glutted his ire by sanctioning the butchery 
of six innocent men. It is said that it was the story of the 
little girl's piteous plea to the murderers to spare her life 
that so aroused the mob, but would a plea of that sort from 
a Negro child to a white murderer in Georgia so arouse? 
It would be as easy to stop the earth in its course as to con- 
vict a white man for such a crime against a Negro family 
in the South. The only crime Postmaster Baker had com- 
mitted at Lake City, S. C, was that of holding by appoint- 
ment a Federal position. But a mob burned his home, shot 
him to death, killed an innocent babe in his arms and wound- 
ed his wife and daughters. The awful details of this crime 
by one of the murderers upon the witness stand aroused no 
one. Even the tears of the judge failed to move a jury to 
convict a gang of self-confessed murderers. Past experi- 
ence with deeds of this kind prompts us to question the guilt 
of Cato and Reade. Considering even the alleged confessions 
of the men, the testimony of their wives reinforced by that 
of the "best people," there is room for reasonable doubt. 
Brooklyn, Sept. 5th, 1904. 



To the Editor of "The Eagle" ' : 

From my point of view, I hardly think there is another 
paper aside from the "yellows" that would permit such dis- 
gusting, anarchistic matter as you print about once a week 
from the pen of the Negro admirer, Jack Thorne. All 
papers without Negro blood on the staff put these dreadful, 
ignorant, ranting productions in the waste basket. The dis- 
gusting details set forth, if printed, should be accompanied 
by illustrations like those of the sensational papers. Some 
of the Eagle tours should be conducted through the South, 
taking relays of hard- worked editors along so they would 
be able to see things at close range and not depend on 
creatures like Emma Goldman for information. The mor- 
bid details given in the last serving printed to-day never 
appeared in the news columns of the Eagle, or any other 
claiming cleanliness. Why then in a letter? People who 
read decent literature, and who have traveled and lived all 
over this country, do not like to read such filthy things in 
print, even in the advertising portions. If I am obliged to 
read it I shall just discontinue patronage of the Eagle as an 
advertiser and as a subscriber. I know others who will not 
stand it. Why don't you get out a Negro sheet for that 
class of patronage? The ones you try to include would be, 
no doubt, accommodated. The next thing of the kind in the 
Eagle's columns will cost it many dollars of withdrawn 
advertisements, and I will never send it through the mails 
again or allow it in my presence. 

Brooklyn, Sept. 7th, 1904. ANNIE CARTER. 

The Eagle gives perfect freedom of discussion in this 
column to all who comply with the simple rules which have 
been made and which are printed from time to time. It 
prints Jack Thome's letter because the rules are complied 
with, just as willingly as it prints this correspondent's let- 
ter, because it believes the opening of its columns to such 
discussion is one of the most important of its public duties. 




To the Editor of "The Eagle" : 

In Georgia, which was admitted into the Union prema- 
turely, before its people were civilized and fit to be ranked as 
citizens — a district that to-day is barbarous, and whose most 
civilized are amply rankling with savagery to shake the 
foundation of any constitutional government — occurred an 
act that has not only disgraced the Southern States, but one 
that has belittled in the eyes of foreign republics the land of 
the brave and the free. The Negro boy criminals, like 
Caucasian boy criminals, committed the atrocious crime of 
murder. They were arrested, tried and condemned to die, 
of course. A reverened brother of the criminals' prey is 
said to have discountenanced violence and exhorted the 
murderous Christian brethren, church members and others 
directly connected with the worst outrage in the annals of 
crimonology; but too indistinguishable were the majestic 
ethics of legal execution from rough shod barbarity for 
them and too rankling with breeded savagery were these 
men to let the law enjoty its supremacy. 

This act serves to demonstrate that the South is lurid 
with depraved ignorance and wicked savagery. Robert 
Ingersoll once said, if you should give him Georgia and 
hell, he'd rent out Georgia and live in hell. 

R. S. KING. 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

In last week's Collier's — Leslie's, also — are pictures of 
the recent burning of Reed and Cato at Statesboro, Ga. 
The one illustration shows the men before the burning, 
chained to a tree. After the awful execution the other one 
is taken, and shows a small heap of ashes by the smoking 
stump. Leslie's and Collier's are not classed as "yellows," 


but are rather two of the leading magazines of this coun- 
try, and yet they care so little about the standing of the 
American Nation among other civilized peoples that they 
unblushingly scatter broadcast such ghastly evidences of 
American depravity and retrogression. The correspondent 
calling herself Anne Carter should vie with Jack Thorne 
in denouncing this awful blot upon civilization, instead of 
assailing him as an ignorant writer of anarchistic matter. 
There never was more ignorant ranting indulged in than the 
anamidversions upon the administration of President 
Roosevelt that fell from the lips of Howell and Walters a 
few evenings ago. Mrs. Carter would do well to read these 
rantings. They are more disgusting than Jack Thome's 
defense of a humble people. Some one remarked the other 
day that the Czar of Russia should be hanged. Should not 
the Governor of Georgia be hanged also? If Georgia was a 
Russian province he would be hanged if he did not punish 
the perpetrators of this awful crime. The American Negro 
is being butchered, hanged, flayed alive and burned at the 
stake, and there seems no redress neither in State or coun- 
try, to which they have proven themselves loyal in every 
conflict waged for the country's maintenance. During the 
Civil War the slave guarded safely the home of the master 
on the battlefield, whom he had every reason to believe 
would not come back. Now because that war waged for 
the perpetuation of slavery and the increase of slave terri- 
tory resulted in the victory of Union arms and the conse- 
quent freedom of that faithful slave, every method is re- 
sorted to to make his freedom undesirable. If Mrs. Carter 
thinks Jack Thome's writings "ranting," I hope that he will 
continue to rant until the white race realizes that for its 
own preservation, for its own integrity, humane treatment 
must be accorded to others. 

Brooklyn, Sept. 12th, 1904. 

Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Jobes Parker, author of the above 
brave epistle, is among the most interesting of Brooklyn 
women, with a wonderfully retentive memory. A fascinat- 
ing and instructive conversationist, Mrs. Parker's reminis- 


cences of her early life in New York, her personal acquaint- 
ance with men and women of the race who figured promi- 
nently in the business and social life of the great Metropolis 
in days gone by, make her a most interesting host. Mrs. 
Parker, who was born in New Jersey and who taught 
school in that State before the War, comes of noble an- 
cestry. Her grandmother and great-grandmother on her 
mother's side were English ; her great-grandmother on her 
father's side was an African princess who, because of her 
marked intelligence, was given her freedom. Her great- 
grandfather on her father's side was a Madigascan. Mrs. 
Parker is one of the most successful book canvassers of the 
East; she has handled the works of nearly every author of 
the race. She has been quite a successful insurance writer 
and is now an agent for the Metropolitan Mercantile & 
Realty Co. Mrs. Parker is an earnest and unswerving 
race-woman, always ready, both with tongue and pen, to 
champion the cause of her people. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

It is said of George Washington that one day while he 
was conversing with another gentleman, a Negro slave 
passed and raised his hat, and Washington, to the astonish- 
ment of his companion, returned the salute by raising his 
hat also. 

"Why General," asked the other, "do you thus salute a 
Negro ?" 

"I cannot allow a Negro to be more polite than myself," 
returned Washington." I do not suppose this incident was 
made a campaign slogan, or that an extra cession of Con- 
gress was called to discuss the propriety or impropriety of 
Washington's civility to a slave. General Washington's polite 
note to Phylis Wheatly, the Negro poetess, is among choice 
American literature. What a contrast is this, the Father of 


His Country to Governor Terrell of Georgia, who is loud 
in the praise of an officer from that State who refused to 
return the salute of a freeman and an officer at Manassas ! 
Had this officer been of the same race the Nation would 
have risen up to condemn this man for conduct unbecom- 
ing an officer and a gentleman. Because a State or even a 
whole Nation boasts that a thing is right, does not make it 
right. We could not have done without the Black Phalanx 
in '63, and the immunes were indispensable in '98, and are 
we sure we may not need them again? Shall not they who 
led the assault and "memorized another Golgotha" at San 
Juan, share the honors of war in times of peace? Talk of 
shooting down such benefactors as they passed in review 
is unprecedented even among heathen nations. Days when 
knighthood was in flower and barons held their sway are 
past. He who would exact homage must remember that 
there is some concession on his part, even to the humblest, 
expected. The master who kicked his chattels and exacted 
obedience to his every wish, must realize and appreciate the 
fact that he who was once an abject is a man. 
Brooklyn, Sept. 18th, 1904. 



Mr. Goodsir Once More States His View 
of the Lynching Question 

To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle": 

In the Eagle of September 15th was an article by John 
P. Goodsir, in which he referred to Jack Thorn and R. S. 
King, two negroes, as vindicating Negro crime, in answer 
to which I would like to advance my ignorance of founda- 
tion for his statement. 

I have been a constant reader of the Eagle and since 
becoming a teacher of this State have taken greater interest 
in the paper. Although my parents are among the strict- 
est Christians of the Anglo-Saxon blood, I, as a rational 
being, irrespective of creed, religion and nationality, must 
admit that I really enjoy Mr. King's discussions as I also 
do Jack Thorn's. I consider their contributions to the 
Eagle the work of brilliant minds. 


New Bedford, Mass., Sept 20th, 1904. 

To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

In Saturday's issue, Miss E. J. Evans of New Bedford, 
Mass., says: "In the Eagle of September 15 was an article 
by John P. Goodsir, in which he referred to Jack Thorne 
and R. S. King, two negroes, as vindicating Negro crime, 
in answer to which I would like to advance my ignorance 
of the foundation for his statement." 

Well, as my critic is a Miss, I would like to enlighten 
her, and as it is leap year, I claim the privilege of the last 
word. In an article by Jack Thorne, published in the Eagle 


September 7, he says : "Governor Chanler could not shoot 
McKinley for insulting the South, so he glutted his ire by 
sanctioning the butchery of six innocent men." He also 
says of two negroes burned for committing the most hor- 
rible crimes against women: "The express company saved 
President Roosevelt from the insult of receiving these 
ghastly relics from Georgia's 'best people', who would 
rather burn him than his negroes." 

I would remind Miss Evans of the fact that President 
McKinley was highly delighted at his hearty reception by 
these "best people," whom Jack Thorne, a negro, insults 
by such palpable misstatements. President Roosevelt's 
mother was a Bulloch of Georgia, and he has been in the 
South associating with these "best people" whom Jack 
Thorne, a Negro, says "would rather burn him," and Presi- 
dent Roosevelt is a good friend personally of these "best 
people," who have not the slightest desire to injure him 
nor see him harmed. 

These "best people" whom Jack Thorne, a Negro, sneers 
at are thoroughbred ladies and gentlemen, and Miss E. J. 
Evans of New Bedford, Mass., considers his statement to 
be true and interesting. She is perfectly welcome to have 
such an opinion; I do not agree with her, and say further, 
that Jack Thorne, in making such statements, endeavors to 
vindicate "Negro crime," insults our President's deceased 
mother's memory, for she was of those "best people" whom 
Negro Jack Thorne sneers at, and practically tells a deliber- 
ate falsehood in insinuating that Governor Chanler and the 
"best people" would like to shoot McKinley. This is the 
kind of Negro which Miss E. J. Evans coddles and favors 
when she writes such an article as was published from her 
pen on Saturday. R. S. King, another Negro, said, in a 
letter on a Georgia lynching of two murderers : "This act 
serves to demonstrate that the South, so far from being 
civilized, is lurid with depraved ignorance and wicked sav- 
agery." This statement is a vile insult to all our fair South- 
ern women, and only a coward would be afraid to say that 
it is a deliberate lie, for this Negro refers, of course, to the 
"best people," whom both these Negroes mentioned sneer 
at, and Miss E. J. Evans attempts to vindicate. My letter, 


published on Thursday, September 15, 1904, has the hearty 
approval of fair women and brave men, highly educated, 
refined and cultured; and a letter published in the New 
York Times, the day after mine by James Callaway of 
Macon, Ga., he shows clearly that it is not the Negro nor 
politics, but merely the question of the freedom of white 
women of the South, who are practically prisoners, and in 
constant fear of being menaced by crouching Negroes, not 
of the better class, which, alas, are in the minority. May 
God have mercy on the flowers of the South when Thornes, 
Kings and Miss Evans make such statements as they have 
done against the South and its "best people." 

Sea Cliff, Aug. 18, 1904. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Allow me to thank Mr. Goodsir through your paper for 
his clear, concise views as expressed in his letter of to-day. 
As a Southern woman of the "best class," I appreciate his 
championships and can say I know what it is to live in fear 
of the "crouching Negro." ANNE CARTER. 

Brooklyn, Sept. 19, 1904. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Permit me to thank Mrs. Carter for the public expres- 
sion of her appreciation of my views on the Race ques- 
tion as it is regarded by some, but in reality is the freedom 
of Southern women from fear of the "crouching Negro." 
In one way, I regret that she has done so, for she is likely 
to be flooded with undesirable literature and scurrilous 
notes. However, I appreciate her kindness all the more, in 
view of the fact that I have not the honor of her acquaint- 
ance. What aroused me to expose the fallacy and mislead- 
ing statements of Thorne and King was the "Negro cod- 
dling letter" of Miss E. J. Evans of New Bedford, Mass., 
published last Saturday, and also the fact that Thorne and 


King both elaborate on the too popular and untruthful idea 
that the "best people" have no desire for the Negro's wel- 
fare and treat him most brutally, while such is not the case. 
In an article written by me more than four years ago, I 
showed clearly that, in a grand majority of cases, the 
Negro's personality is not congenial, socially to the whites ; 
that society and its circles are based upon congeniality of 
personalities, temperaments, ideas and aims. All of us 
white people are not congenial to one another. To some 
people, as soon as we meet, we are drawn towards them, and 
a bond of friendship firmly established. * * * 

Now the Negro, who is successfully in business is praised 
by us of the white race. However, we do not care to have 
a Negro lead the German or cortillon with one of our fair 
Southern women. To hear some Massachusetts people talk, 
one would think it is a crime because they are not allowed to 
do so. Governor Terrell would no doubt take off his hat 
and shake hands with an old darkey slave who had served 
in his family faithfully and well. I have seen fair women 
throw their arms around their old "brack mammys" and 
hug them, and I wished for the moment that I was in old 
aunty's place. George Washington, we admit, took off his 
hat to an old and faithful slave, but Washington did not 
slop over in regard to his officers and men for simply doing 
their duty to the Nation, their wives, children and them- 

Sea Cliff, Sept. 21, 1904. 


To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle": 

Just a few months ago the heirs of "Click" Mitchell, who 
was actually kicked and hacked to death by a mob at 
Urbana, Ohio, about five years ago, received from the 
county in which Ubana is situated, $5,500. This recalls 
one of the most shocking episodes that ever disgraced Ohio. 
The yelling of "Extras" through the streets of New York, 
with their glaring headlines, and a woman's incendiary let- 
ter of thanks to her avengers, made me feel, as I rode down 
Sixth Avenue on that day, that — although far removed 
from the scene — as though I myself was the very culprit 


as I felt the burning gaze of my fellow passengers riveted 
upon me. Now, at the end of five years, an article appear- 
ing in the Outlook (and the Outlook is a recognized au- 
thority) states that the alleged crime for which this man 
died, and for which this comparatively poor community was 
so heavily fined, was never committed. Now what kind of 
government have we where a woman can summon an inno- 
cent man before her and without trial send him to a death 
so barbarous and cruel? Do we live in the days of Cath- 
arine DeMidicis, Bloody Marys and Robespierres ? If so, 
let us change our form of government to an absolute mon- 
archy, put a woman on the throne and revive the guillotine. 
I have said, and reiterate it, that the white woman over 
which there is so much needless ado, is as safe in Missis- 
sippi as she is in Massachusetts, and instead of keeping up 
the cry of "wolf," she might reach down from her high 
estate and extend a helping hand to the black woman, the 
prey of the men of both races in the South, and whose word 
would not be taken against a white man in a court of law 
south of Mason's and Dixon's line. Know ye not that 
Simon Legree stalks abroad unrebuked in the South, so 
long as he preys only upon the child of the "alien" ? Thou- 
sands of innocent and defenceless Negro girls are led actray 
in the South yearly by these very "educated" and "refined" 
gentlemen of whom Mr. Goodsir boasts so extravagantly. 
Now such weaklings are poor defenders of women. Such 
men can "crouch" with impunity, there is no one to run 
them down and no law to punish them. The gentleman in 
referring to Jack Thorne has taken great pains all through 
his letter to stigmatize me as "Jack Thorne the Negro." 
Such modes of attack have been very disastrous to us at 
times. It is our privilege, however, to dignify that name. 
I would inform the gentleman that I am a Negro full- 
blooded. Thanks to my sainted mother there is not a drop 
of the blood of his race in my veins. It saves me from the 
sin of cursing her very memory. I belong to a race too 
magnanimous to kick the prostrate, oppress the weak, hide 
their own sins and blow other people's short comings to the 
winds. JACK THORNE. 

Brooklyn, Sept. 21, 1904. 


To the Editor of the "Citizen": 

In last Sunday's edition of one of the leading newspapers 
of Manhattan appeared the story of "A Woman Who 
Watched a Real Cannibal Feast." 

"Mrs. Beulah M. Turtle, a young American missionary," 
the paper goes on to say, "is now telling in a series of public 
lectures a story of adventure which eclipses the wildest 
flights of the imaginations of writers of dime novels. 'I 
can never forget the terrible things which caused my hair 
to turn gray almost in a single night. The scenes live in 
my memory as a dark nightmare, a horrible dream which I 
only wish was not true. My experience among the can- 
nibals has been a shock to my nervous system from which I 
am afraid I will never recover'," etc., Mrs. Tuttle is relat- 
ing her experience with cannibals on the Caroline Islands. 
But it seems strange that she could horrify an American 
audience with such a story; a people to whom such scenes 
as has turned this lady's hair "gray almost in a single 
night" are e very-day occurrences, to attract no more atten- 
tion than a dog fight to those who read of them; a people 
who invite women and children to witness the burning of a 
human being alive at the stake, to hear his agonizing cries 
as he slowly dies, to see his entrails torn out of his body, 
his eyes gouged out of his head, his heart cut out, his fingers 
and ears cut off and distributed among the audience, who 
eagerly seize them for souvenirs. The very things which to 
witness has made Mrs. Tuttle a nervous wreck pale into 
insignificance besides the barbarities that it's possible to be 
enacted at any time in any Southern State. Mrs. Tuttle 
concludes the story of killing and eating of twelve sailors 
by cannibals, as follows : "Then I saw a terrible thing. 
One of the sailors moved. He had only been stunned by 
the blow from the club and had partially recovered con- 
sciousness. One of the savages saw the sailor regaining his 
senses. Another blow with the club and the sailor was 


killed and put out of his suffering. The fuel was gathered 
and naked bodies of the dead sailors roasted over it. The 
chief ate first. After dancing and singing a few minutes he 
allowed his followers to partake." That is, indeed, a hor- 
rible story. But I wonder if Mrs. Turtle's dramatic re- 
citals have the desired effect upon calloused American audi- 
ences. "The sailor was killed and put out of his suffering." 
Why, that's merciful and even commendable in a savage. 
We Christian Americans can go these poor, ignorant 
heathen, whose only object was to feast, one better in acts 
of cruelty and barbarism ; we roast the human being alive 
at the stake and with pleasure witness his agony and suf- 
fering and laugh at his prayers for death to end them. It 
is an awful thing to burn a human being alive. The 
American Humane Society would imprison a person for 
such treatment of the lowest brute kind. Yet this treat- 
ment of human creatures has become a fixed custom in 
some of our commonwealths, sanctioned by the Nation 
and recommended by the President in his last message to 
Congress, but perhaps unwittingly. "The Negro's worst 
enemy is the criminal," says the Chief Executive. But a 
thousand per cent, more dangerous to the American 
people is the mob who openly defies law and order and 
tramples upon justice. There may be doubt as to the 
guilt of a culprit in the hands of a mob, but there is not 
the shadow of a doubt of the guilt of every man and 
woman who congregate for the purpose of wantonly 
taking human life. 




To the Editor of "The New York Age": 

As a soldier the Negro has proved that he is brave even 
to the point of recklessness, that under fire he is a stranger 
to fear. But of what avail is this wanton disregard for 
one's own life in the defense of the government? Why 
make the world wonder at San Juan to be hissed, jeered and 
even fired upon by the ungrateful people of a country whose 
honor he has upheld? Heroism displayed in battle is not 
to be despised or discounted. But that which prompts the 
laying down of one's life in times of peace to protect his 
home or the lives of his wife and little ones is of more 
value. With every weapon taken from him by the laws of 
the Southern States the Negro is as helpless as a serf in 
the hands of mobs who need only a pretext to tantalize, 
intimidate and murder him. But the Afro-American people 
need not be without the means of defence ; every cabin 
could and should be an arsenal. 

To this appalling situation the entire race seems indiffer- 
ent; they frolic, they drink, they dance away precious time, 
and when danger comes the only weapons they have with 
which to contend with rifles are brick-bats. They bring 
from the South the same devil-may-care spirit and in sec- 
tions where helplessness is less excusable, they are in riot- 
ous times at the mercy of "uncircumcised dogs" who beat 
and cuff them with impunity. 

When David Hawkins, double banked by ruffians, fired 
the shot which precipitated the riots in South Brooklyn less 
than two years ago, as is usually the case, we were un- 
stinting in abuse of this "bad man." But David Hawkins 
knows that the "Golden Rule" is not to be applied when 
dealing with Irish thugs ; hard knocks are the only com- 


modities that bring respect. Let us brevet him "Captain" 
Hawkins, for he is master of the situation in Baltic Street 
and vicinity. When this man of iron left the court room 
after the trial of rioters, he went immediately to the scene 
of the shooting and not a tough assayed to molest him. 
Since that time assaults upon inoffensive men in this sec- 
tion have been frequent; colored men being knocked down 
and beaten in broad daylight. But "Captain" Hawkins 
moves about with perfect freedom. "Captain" Hawkins 
was not at home when about two weeks ago two white 
roughs entered Baltic Street and in front of his door beat 
a fourteen-year-old boy into insensibility while Negro men 
looked on and even run away. "Captain" Hawkins was not 
there, or there would have been a far different tale to tell 
of that fracas. It's "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a 
tooth" in dealing with toughs. 

Brooklyn, September 10, 1906. 



Written When it Was Rumored the Poet 
Had But a Few Days to Live. 

To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Please allow me a word in eulogy of our poet Paul 
Lawrence, now slowly dying- at his home in Dayton, Ohio. 
We as a race occupy too meagre a place in the literary 
world to rightly appreciate his genius and his worth. He 
soared in realms ethereal, too lofty for us to reach. It was 
the Saxon who saw the beauty of his soul and placed him 
on high that the world might hear him sing. As he slowly 
fades from view the form of William Dean Howells looms 
up before our grateful eyes, but for whose generous pen 
our flower might have blossomed, bloomed and faded un- 
known. We contributed little to him in praise, and his 
yearnings now for longer life that he might do more for 
his race, makes him seem like the swan which sings its 
sweetest song when dying. Oh, Autumn winds, touch 
gently the fading cheeks of our bard, whose frailties we 
would not draw from their dread abode, but would pray that 
the peace which passeth understanding might be his in this 
his hour of reflection. We, as a race, environed by the 
stern and cruel, have had but little time to dream of the 
beautiful as we wrestled with monsters strong and relent- 
less. Paul Lawrence Dunbar took time to listen to the rip- 
pling of the rills, the murmur of the brooks, the songs of 
the birds. Some of us, in our strong love for the race and 
in our zeal for their welfare, have waged war to the knife, 
knife to the hilt, far beyond the skirmish line. Dunbar 
chose to sing that the skeptical might look behind the ebony 


exterior and see there the sweet, loving and forgiving heart. 
Such is true Negro character, to be able to sing even in 
chains. By this he has puzzled the dominant and awed the 
oppressor. Up from the slave plantation, floating on the 
balmy air, perfumed by the waving corn, "Swing low, 
sweet chariot," rises above the oaths of the driver and re- 
laxes his hold upon the whip. No Greek nor barbarian in 
captivity has been able to retain such sweetness of soul. If 
ever we needed our Dunbar, it is now, for the war is wax- 
ing harder, and we need such as he to bear away the 
wounded, cover up the dead and hold the cross before the 
eyes of the dying. Robert Burns entered into immortality 
at 38, having raised to himself an imperishable monument. 
Paul Lawrence Dunbar at 32, raised a mortal to the skies 
and drew an angel down. Now that star, just in its zenith, 
flickers and flickers and is going out; and we see not an- 
other rising to take its place. Dying ! Dying ! Dying ! 

"Oh wind of the winter sigh low in my grief, 

I bear thy compassionate breath ; 
I wither, I fall, like the Autumn kissed leaf, 

He gave me the roses of death, of death, 

He gave me the roses of death." 

Brooklyn, Sept. 28, 1904. 



Adaline Leonard. 

To the Editor of "The Standard Union" : 
Some poet has said 

"There is no death; the stars go down, 

To rise upon some fairer shore; 
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown, 

They shine forever more." 

"That which we call death is but the entrance into newer 
life, a life of real beauty, filled with joy unspeakable." 

Without comment upon the above theory, or the multi- 
tude of others of what death is to the individual, let me 
say I believe that death is the great consoler, that ends 
every sigh; brings to an end all pain and suffering, for 
"There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary be 
at rest." The youthful days of Adaline Leonard were past 
when I first met her. She was a woman in the prime of 
life, vigorous and full of womanly grace and beauty. 
There was genuine zeal in every one of the many efforts she 
put forth for the uplift of her people, whether in the school 
room or in the church, or whereever she was called upon 
to lend a hand. With a comfortable home and the pun- 
shine that beamed forth from every brown eye which greet- 
ed her each morning as she entered the school room, to 
Adaline Leonard doubtless life was most desirable. But 
there came a time in that checkered life just closed when 
even the morning greetings of loved ones did not comfort 
and gladden, for the sunshine had gone out from that once 
sunny home and left it real dark. We have watched the 
glow slowly fade from cheeks flushed and ruddy ; the vigor- 
ous and elastic step slow and unsteady, and eyes once clear 


and bright scarcely able to discern even faces familiar. 
Forlorn, disappointed, although she never spoke of weari- 
ness, she doubtless many times wished for the rest that has 
come to her now. Although for seventeen years I have 
watched the going and coming of Adaline Leonard, I can- 
not fittingly eulogize her nor record her many virtues. Let 
older acquaintances, and the children who learned at her 
knee, some now grown to manhood and womanhood, stand 
by the bier and tell fully the story of her life, her virtues, 
her trials, her sacrifices. So familiar has been her slight 
figure slowly moving back and forth to and from her duties 
through Fulton Street, that it seems I must see her still, 
at all times ready to pause for a chat, and to involuntarily 
sigh and speak of the "Gabriel," who on one sad day went 
out from their home and left it real desolate. The hopeless 
paralytic in the hospital ward will listen in vain now for the 
comfort of her ministering hand, the soft tread of her 
weary feet, her patient indulgence, her soothing, cheering 
words, for at length her trials are ended. 

6 1 Fleet Street. 
Brooklyn, Feb. 22nd, 1906. 


[General Secretary of the Brooklyn Y. M. C. A.] 

To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" : 

Allow me space for a few words of eulogy of the late 
Edwin F. See, general Secretary of the Brooklyn Young 
Men's Christian Association. An employee of the Central 
Branch for nearly four years, I had an opportunity to see 
a good deal of this eminent Christian man. While it is 
true that in his official capacity he moved in a sphere above 
mine, it did not prevent me from studying his character and 
noting his many noble traits. Exacting and rigid in his 
requirements of those under his direction as general secre- 
tary of that great institution, Edwin F. See was indeed a 
pattern for those about him of whom he expected honest 
and trustworthy performance of duty. To subordinates, he 
was never demonstrative nor gushing, neither was he conde- 
scending, but met his fellow men regardless of station with 
a cordiality that was honest and sincere. 

During the fall and winter of 1905 it was my privilege to 
greet him each morning as he came into the building, and 
to painfully note the slow-fading cheeks, the slow and un- 
certain tread which betokened the approaching end of his 
useful career. But Edwin F. See, as he neared the Pearly 
Gates, did not go thither as one tired of life. He doubtless 
longed for a longer stay here, for surely there were home 
ties and the companionship of friends which made life here 
desirable. The beauties of the world are for the upright in 
heart, and to wish to die is unwise. And then again, there 
were tasks in the great field of Christian labor that he must 
leave unfinished — more young men to counsel, more strug- 
gling branches to help and encourage. The rose, blushing 
in the morning dew, does not long for the noon-day sun that 
will blast its petals and thus take away its power to charm. 


Edwin F. See will be especially missed at 502 Fulton Street, 
where most of his life as a Christian worker was spent, for 
"his life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that 
nature might stand up and say to all the world 'this was a 

Brooklyn, Aug. 2.7, 1906. 

Brooklyn, N. Y., July 30th, 1906. 
Mr. David B. Fulton, 
Dear Sir: 

I must thank you for your beautiful tribute to our 
dear Mr. See in Saturday's Eagle. What you observed of 
his noble Christian manliness for four years I witnessed for 
seventeen years, and it was always just as you picture it. 
He was a man ! 

Sincerely yours, 


Acting General Secretary. 
502 Fulton Street 



Kate S. Harris 


I would not call thee to earth again, 
With its fitful fever, its toils and pain; 
Thy bark hast sailed for the Golden West; 
It hath reached the haven of eternal rest. 
Yet, it would have been most sweet to me, 
To have said Good Bye ere you put to sea; 
Ere the summons came "Arise, depart, 
For this is not your rest, True Heart." 

One who knew of thy Christian grace, 
Fain would have gazed on thy silent face ; 
With the weeping mourners beside the beir, 
To shed with them regretful tear. 
Although I heard not the deep drawn sigh, 
From the sorely bereft as they passed me by, 
Thy motherly counsel, thy life so pure, 
Shall live with me as the hills endure. 

Some day when my bark hath run its race, 
I shall meet thee dear One face to face, 
On the shore of the beautiful Jasper Sea, 
Where there'll be no tears for thee and me; 
No sever'd friendships, dissembling foes, 
And no sin to mar that sweet repose. 
Till then, Farewell, Oh richly blest! 
Thy work is ended : Enjoy thy rest. 



From The Citizen. 


In Robeson County, North Carolina, on the old Carolina 
Central Railroad, which connects the seaboard with the 
interior, within forty miles of Wilmington, the metropolis, 
and in close proximity to Lumberton, nestling among the 
sand hills, there is a straggling little village known for many 
years before the war as "Scuffle Town." The hamlet doubt- 
less derived its name from the fact that it was a free negro 
settlement. In many Southern States the free colored man, 
shorn of the protection of a master, in many instances the 
object of suspicion in whom the slave-holder saw possible, if 
not probable, uprisings and massacres, was often looked 
down upon by the slave who under the protection of a 
master considered himself better off. Although many free 
negroes in North Carolina, who purchased their freedom 
by their own thrift and industry, lived in an enviable sphere, 
the shiftless among them were often referred to by the 
slaves as "scuffling along." Hence the name Scuffle Town. 
Insignificant as this obscure little hamlet may appear to the 
stranger with its old decayed dwellings, its neglected streets, 
its uneven rows of cabins, Scuffle Town less than forty 
years ago was the theater of some of the most exciting 
events, the most blood-curdling tragedies ever recorded in 
the history of the old North State. For this little hamlet 
was the home of the octoroon outlaw Henry Berry Lowery, 
who, with his band of bloodthirsty desperadoes, kept the 
entire State in terror and the eyes of the whole country 
settled upon Robeson County for quite a number of years. 
Those of us who are familiar with the history of Frank and 
Jesse James, who led that band of outlaws that kept the 
West so long in terror by their murders, train robberies and 
other crimes, have doubtless heard little or nothing of this 


man who during the same period and actuated by the same 
grievances terrorized North Carolina. 

Just as the name of Jesse James sent an involuntary shud- 
der through the souls of those who heard it, although far re- 
moved from the scene of his depredations, so did the name 
of Henry Berry Lowery awe and terrorize in North 

Lowery and his intrepid freebooters were all colored men. 
The James boys and their followers were armed with the 
most improved firearms of that day; with the exception of 
the carbine carried by Lowery himself, taken from a 
Mexican who attempted to capture him, the only weapons 
these men had were knives and double-barreled shotguns. 
Although free colored people in the South could not vote, in 
some States they could own property and many of them 
owned slaves.. These ScufBer Towners, an admixture of 
Saxon, Indian and negro, kept aloft from the blacks, and 
like Santo Domingans, nursed a feeling of hostility to- 
wards the whites. In many instances during the Civil War 
free mulattoes sympathized with and cast in their lot 
with the Confederates; in Louisiana colored people of 
means gave largely of their wealth to assist the 
Southern cause. But they were not considered as desir- 
able fighting material until the secessionists saw defeat 
staring them in the face. Then every available man was 
pressed into service, the free negro having the first con- 
sideration. The elder Lowery, the leader and adviser 
of his people, and who had been outspoken in his con- 
demnation of the South's attitude in the awful controversy, 
advised his people not to assist in the fight for the perpetua- 
tion of slavery. But the whites, feeling it their right to 
draft into the service whom they willed, invaded this free 
negro settlement and shot to death those who resisted them, 
and among the killed was the elder Lowery. Henry, then 
quite a young man, was an eye witness to the death of his 
parent. Standing over the grave of his slain father he 
swore never to rest until every man who participated in that 
dreadful tragedy paid the penalty with his life. Those 
who recall that dark period in Robeson County immediately 
following the surrender, remember how well that vow was 


kept. The war had ended, the defeated rebel had returned 
and the death of Lowery the elder was almost forgotten, 
when one day a prominent citizen of Robeson, riding along 
the plank road leading from Lumberton to Scuffle Town, 
suddenly threw up his hands and fell from his buggy, shot 
through the heart. This was the beginning of the work of 
vengeance. The death of this man, who was a recruiting 
officer at the time the negro stronghold was invaded, re- 
called to every mind the tragedy and young Lowery's vow. 
The whites of Lumberton and vicinity arose, invaded Scuffle 
Town and attempted to hunt down the murderer. But 
Lowery, who had laid his plans well before beginning his 
work of vengeance, had made for himself a secure hiding 
place in the fastness of the great Dismal Swamp; and the 
sympathy and loyalty of his people who were ready to die 
rather than betray him made his stronghold impregnable. 
The killing of three other men within less than three 
months after the first tragedy threw the entire State into a 
panic and large rewards were offered for the capture of the 
murderers dead or alive. Raids by bands of armed men 
upon the negro settlement became frequent and innocent 
men and women were in many instances beaten and killed 
by the man hunters, chagrined by their futile attempts to 
locate the outlaw and the stubborn refusal of his friends to 
reveal his hiding place. These cruel assaults upon the little 
town won to Lowery more friends and sympathizers ; des- 
perate characters began to flock to his standard until his 
band numbered twenty-five or more of as reckless dare- 
devils and cutthroats as ever trod the soil of any country. 
Foremost among these were Stephen Lowery, brother to 
Henry, and far more cruel, relentless and bloodthirsty; 
George Applewhite and "Boss" Strong. Murders became 
more frequent and train holdups and highway robberies 
were added to the list of crimes which intensified the feel- 
ing of dread and insecurity throughout the State. Offers of 
large rewards for the capture of the outlaws brought about 
more strenuous efforts to capture them, but they evaded the 
authorities for many years. Many stories became current 
concerning the charmed life of Henry Berry Lowery. It 
was averred that he was known to appear on trains run- 


ning at the highest speed and to reveal his identity to awe- 
stricken passengers and trainmen, and then disappear as 
mysteriously as he appeared. Another tale was that, meet- 
ing a squad of soldiers on the highway one day and re- 
vealing his identity so disconcerted and demoralized them 
that they could not capture him. One night, carousing in 
the village, a raid was made upon them by constables and 
George Applewhite, together with a woman, supposed to 
be Henry's wife, were captured and taken to the Wilming- 
ton jail. The outlaw leader had, however, gained such a 
reputation for recklessness and bravery that a threat to 
enter Wilmington and burn it so terrorized the citizens that 
the captives were released. A Mexican, tempted by the large 
reward offered for the capture of the outlaws, visited Lum- 
berton and boasted to the authorities there that he would 
run down and capture the leader and disperse the des- 
peradoes within a very short time. He strutted about the 
streets of Lumberton for a day or two, dressed in his showy 
native costume, and to show his bravery entered Scuffle 
Town itself, and for a while chatted freely with the natives. 
Then he disappeared into the swamp, where he built himself 
a cabin and remained in hiding during the day and strolled 
about at night in disguise. 

But in less time than he had boasted to capture the out- 
law, Henry Berry Lowery himself walked into his cabin, 
told him it was surrounded and that there was no alternative 
but surrender. The Mexican was bound and escorted to the 
outlaw camp and told to write a farewell letter to his family. 
The Mexican complied and then waited calmly for his 
execution. But they kept him in suspense until he wearily 
begged the outlaws to do what they intended doing and 
have done with it. But bloody as had been the career of 
this bold and fearless outlaw, he could not do the deed nor 
give the order. Seeing their leader melt, all of his follow- 
ers weakened except Stephen Lowery, his brother, who with 
an oath said to the Mexican, 'Say your prayers and stand 
out; I'll kill you." The man complied, stepped out a few 
paces and dropped dead. Then a reporter for a certain 
great New York daily newspaper contrived to enter the 
stronghold of the famous North Carolina outlaws in order 


to glean from the lips of Lowery himself the story of his 
uprising. Hazardous undertaking, but it was successful. 
The reporter having forwarded a letter that he was com- 
ing, was met at a small railroad station in the vicinity of 
the outlaw camp, there blindfolded and taken to their hiding 
place in the fastness of the Dismal Swamp. And there from 
the lips of the leader himself he heard the story of the 
causes which led to the great feud during which a score or 
more of people had been killed, most of whom had been im- 
plicated in the murder of his father. But the only wrong 
thing the outlaw conceeded his men had done was to kill an 
old defenceless man solely for the purpose of robbery. At 
the conclusion of the interview the visitor was again blind- 
folded and escorted to the village, the outlaws not permit- 
ting him to open his eyes until the railway station was 
reached. Following the reporters return to New York a 
glowing story of the Lowery feud was published with a 
flattering description of the handsome octoroon outlaw and 
the history and customs of his peculiar people. 

The career of Jesse James was brought to a sudden termi- 
nation by a bullet in the back of his head from a revolver 
in the hands of a supposed friend. Frank James has for 
many years been a peaceful citizen. Those of the fol- 
lowers of these two daring outlaws who were not killed off 
have served and are serving long terms in various prisons 
throughout the country. The State authorities of North 
Carolina having utterly failed to effect the capture of Low- 
ery and break up his stronghold, for many months after the 
release of George Applewhite from Wilmington jail all 
attempts to capture the outlaws were apparently abandoned. 
Excepting Henrv Berry Lowery himself, who was ever 
cautious and wary, the outlaws with their many friends en- 
joyed the freedom of their native town where they met to 
divide the spoils from train holdups and robberies. Stephen 
Lowery was a banjo player, and often his love for music 
and whiskey had cost his comrades many serious encounters 
and hairbreadth escapes, and in their flight for safety, very 
frequently Stephen had to be taken up bodily by his com- 
panions and carried. In the back woods of North Carolina, 
upon the old county roads, journeying from settlement to 


settlement, can still be seen the quaint old white-covered, 
sway-backed wagon of the "trader." After the breaking 
out of the Lowery feud traders evaded Scuffle Town and 
vicinity, but the tempting prizes offered for the capture 
of the outlaws often during that long season of terror 
caused the more venturesome ones to pause upon the 
village streets to trade and run the risk of being killed 
and robbed. One day as Stephen Lowery sat half 
drunk by the roadside on the outskirts of the village, 
slowly running his fingers over the strings of his banjo, 
a trader's wagon in passing paused and one of the oc- 
cupants engaged him in conversation. "Fine banjer yo 
got thar," said the trader. "Straight'n up, ol' man, an' giv' 
us a tune ; I know yo' kin do it." Stephen, flattered by the 
compliment, assayed to comply. A shot rang out and the 
bandit fell over dead. Two men jumped out, severed Ste- 
phen's head from the trunk and hastened away. The next 
victim of this feeling of security was Boss Strong; he was 
shot through a crack in the wall of a house one night while 
lying on his back playing a jewsharp during a frolic. But 
the murderers failed to get his body, which was immediately 
removed by his friends and all traces of the murder cleared 
away. Of all this band of over twenty-five outlaws none was 
captured and but few were killed. While the feud was on 
they were relentless and cruel in their treatment of enemies. 
But when the last person under suspicion of having part in 
the death of the elder Lowery had been killed off, the au- 
thorities had ceased to harass them and their leader had 
called off the feud, as calmly and as peaceful as lambs they 
returned to their farms. George Applewhite, whose reputa- 
tion for daring was far worse than that of Lowery him- 
self, finally surrendered to the authorities of his State, and 
has for many years been a peaceful citizen of Goldsboro. 
But the fate of the undaunted leader himself remains a 
mystery to this day. Among the many stories of his fate 
is the one in which it is alleged that he had himself stored 
away in a tool chest in which he was shipped West, where 
he joined the army. On visiting Scuffle Town a few years 
ago I found it still a settlement of Ishmaelites with their 
fists shut against the outside world, cherishing the old aver- 


sion for social mingling or intermarriage with blacks. I 
found them open to social chats, however, the grandson of 
one of the outlaws furnishing the material for the foregoing 
story. Some of the men who two decades ago thought 
nothing of snufing out the lives of their fellows are to-day 
grizzled old law-abiding citizens, their faces the index of 
genuine piety. Still men tremble as they recall that awful 
bloody period in the history of Robeson County and speak 
the name of Henry Berry Lowery with bated breath. 


A Pullman Porter's Story 

At Morristown, Tenn., on the East Tennessee, Virginia 
and Georgia Railroad, a branch of the road leads out from 
the main line. This road connects the East Tennessee trains 
with those of "The Western North Carolina," a tributary 
of the Richmond and Danville road, which runs through the 
little city of Asheville, N. C. Often, on reaching Morris- 
town, on my way to and from Memphis and other South- 
ern cities, has a desire taken possession of me to visit Ash- 
ville, and, if possible, find a friend of my early youth, who 
had entered the little city many years ago, changed her name 
and hidden away somewhere among those beautiful hills. 
One day a change of trains at Knoxville, Tenn., gave me the 
long-wished-for opportunity of at least a trip through Ash- 
ville and a view of the entrancingly beautiful scenery sur- 
rounding it. But it's only the name upon the humble little 
station and the babel created by the anxious 'bus drivers 
from the many hotels and boarding houses this thrifty little 
city affords that apprises one of his arrival at Asheville, 
which lies hidden behind the hills some distance from the 
depot. The first time that I had the pleasure of a "lay-over" 
and a visit to the city proper was at the time of year when 
constant rains make travel in that section of country exceed- 
ingly difficult and unpleasant. The vehicle in which I took 
my journey alternately plunged to the hubs in mire and 
stumbled over huge stones. On alighting at the town hall 
I learned that she whom I sought lived at Biltmore, a neigh- 
boring village, and that to reach her would require another 
journey on foot. But the road led through a region so 
enchanting, so picturesque that fatigue was forgotten. I 
found my old friend in a lovely suburban home, surrounded 
by a goodly portion of this world's goods and destined to 


live long like the eagle, because, far from contagions's con- 
tamination, she was breathing in the pure air of the moun- 
tains. The following morning together we climbed to a 
neighboring peak, and it was from this eminence that I saw 
Ashville in its beauty. Although the city is upon a hill, we 
were so far above it that it appeared to be in a faraway 
valley. Black Mountain, looming up majestically in the 
distance, and "Pisgah," smiling at the rising sun, made the 
scenery surrounding Asheville like that of the Yosemite 
Valley. Looking northward, we saw a pillar of white 
smoke rise from behind the trees away up the mountain 
side, followed by the faint sound of an engine's whistle, and 
then a tiny train of cars moved slowly down the mountain 
path towards the city to wake the sleeping inhabitants who, 
on that early summer morning, had not begun to stir. As 
we stood there gazing upon the beautiful panorama, the 
"Song of The Mountaineers" came to my mind: 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our 

fathers' God, 
Thou hast made thy children mighty by a touch of the 

mountain sod; 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge where the spoilers' feet 

ne'r trod: 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our 

fathers' God. 

We are watchers of a beacon whose light can never die ; 
We are guardians of an alter mid the silence of the sky. 
The rocks yield founts of courage struck forth as by 

thy rod: 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our 

fathers' God. 

The congeniality of this section of North Carolina has 
not only caused it to be held in high repute among North- 
ern and Western people as a desirable health resort, but 
also made it a permanent dwelling place for that class of 
inhabitants whose thrift and capital have transformed Ashe- 
ville and advanced it far ahead of other communities in the 
Old North State and given it an air of envious respecta- 
bility. But the pomp and grandeur displayed by inhabit- 


ants of wealth and means cannot entirely conceal the fact 
that the slothful native is a potent factor in making the city 
of Asheville cosmopolitan. In striking contrast with stylish 
traps, gowns, well-groomed horses and glistening livery, 
is the ancient beast of the burden, the ox, hitched to its two- 
wheeled cart, slowly plodding its way through the busy 
streets, while the driver, unmindful of the noise and bustle 
of progress about him, sleeps serenely upon his load. More 
interesting to me than Asheville's phenomenal growth and 
beauty are these, the original inhabitants of western North 
Carolina and east Tennessee — the lean and lank mountain- 
eers. Doubtless it was the loftiness of their habitation, their 
nearness to things heavenly, that sharpened their sense of 
right and gave them the courage to take a stand for the 
right during that period in the Nation's history which tried 
men's souls. They did not believe that any good would 
come out of rebellion against the Union, and no amount of 
Southern oratory or buldozing could change them, and in 
this they have remained steadfast until this day. Unlike the 
frank and hospitable Southerner of the plains, the moun- 
taineer is not quick to scrape acquaintance; but after much 
shying, beating about the bush and catechising a stranger 
he finds him all right, that he's not "er revanoo varmint, 
tryin' ter sic th' guvmint on fo'ks whoser pesterin' no one 
but jist er mindin' ther own bizness," he goes the lowlander 
one better in the copiousness of his hospitality. To the 
mountaineer the "makin' of 'mount'n dew' out'n his own 
co'n" is more profitable than "tot'n hit toer th' mill ;" and as 
he insists upon the illicit manufacture of it, every stranger 
who happens around is "er revanoo officer" and is in im- 
minent danger until he proves himself otherwise. 

One afternoon at "Paint Rock" I sauntered across an old 
bridge that spanned the French Broad River and followed a 
zig-zag road which climbed the hill to the northward. I 
had gone about half a mile when I came upon a yoke of 
oxen, hitched to a cart standing by the roadside. The 
driver, who had alighted and gone some distance into a 
dense thicket was cutting a twig from a small sapling when 
I came up. He paused when he saw me, and letting the 
bush he had bent, fly upright, came slowly up to where I 


stood, whittling the end of the twig. "Howdy," he said, 
eyeing me up and down ; then going over to where the oxen 
stood, he began adjusting the bow that encircled one of 
their necks. "Whut mout yer be look'n fer in these parts?" 
he continued, stroking the necks of his team. "Oh, nothing 
particular," I answered, "simply walking for exercise." He 
jerked his head up quickly, momentarily stared at me, 
grunted, and resumed the inspection of his team. 

"The scenery is quite lovely around here." 

"Eny body owe yo' roun' er bout here?" 

"Did I say so?" I returned rather warmly. 

"Why, laws honey, sence MaKinlay an' Hanner's bin er 
runnin' this guvmint eny thing's likely ter hap'n, wunders 
never heered of afore; an' we uns wont be tuk wi' surprise 
ter see er nigger revinooman er look'n fer trouble an' er 
pokin' his nose in whar yaller fever an' measles is er ragin'. 
Thars nuthin' new under th' sun." 

I had just begun to understand this fellow's strange con- 
duct and language; he suspected that I was either a Gov- 
ernment officer or a spy, looking for moonshiners. 

"I've seed but one nigger guvmint man in my life," he 
went on, eyeing me curiously, "an' he wus eh sharp un ; 
layed eroun heer amongst we uns, grinned his way in her 
our erfairs — ev'n hepp'd sum uv us ter mak' th' stuff an' 
git shed'n it — tell one day er white guvmint varmint cum 
er long an' led er few er we uns down ter th' village an' 
sum er thim er stil break'n rock at Columbus. But that's 
bin er long time ergo, an' that nigger's carkis is gone back 
ter muther dus' ; fer es strong es th' law wus hit could'nt 
save 'im." 

There was a triumphant twinkle in his eyes turned upon 
me at the conclusion of these remarks to note the effect of 
his words, but I betrayed no uneasiness. 

"Well," I replied, with unassumed good nature, "I hap- 
pen to be only an ordinary working man, a sleeping car 
porter, and my car is just below here at Paint Rock." 

"Tew be sho," he returned curtly, readjusting his line 
preparatory to resuming his journey, "tother feller wus er 
skool teacher, preacher, too. Yo' orter heered him et big 
meet'n time. Th' las' sermon I ever heered him preach wus 


et one er them big meet'ns an' his tex wus 'Draw in th' 
wunderins uv yer mine an' git ter hankerin' arter truth.' 
He wus er hankerin' arter truth an' th' truth killed him. 
Yo' know the Scripter tells yer ef th' truth kills yer yo' 
mus' die th' deth. I'm kinder rusty on Bible talk, but I think 
I'm rite on that pint — go on thar'. Gee Logan. Goin' 
my way ?" 

"Yes," I answered, trying to surpress the laughter that 
this amusing talk from this decidedly queer character pro- 
voked, as I hastily mounted the tail end of his cart just as 
the team started slowly down the hill. 

"Twould'nt improve yer helth ter go eny futher no how, 
fer things air purty ticklish in these here mount'ns long 
erbout this time er yere an' hit would'nt do ter seek ter 
moles' er mak' erfeered." 

At this remark I gave vent to the laughter I could no 
longer surpress ; the mountains echoed and re-echoed the 
sound, even the oxen pricked up their ears and the driver 
regarded me with a look of astonishment. 

"Excuse me," I said, "but your waste of words on a 
simple citizen, incapable of doing you the least harm, is too 
amusing for me to treat in any other way but to laugh." 

"Jes so," he muttered abstractedly, and turned to lash his 
team into a swifter gait. For a few moments silence 
reigned. Perched upon a rather high seat in front of me, 
this homespun jehu was a study. He had taken off his wide- 
brimmed hat and thrown it behind him, thus revealing a 
shock of hair of no particular shade; hair grew about in 
spots upon his rather broad chin, but refused to screen his 
very homely mouth, while over his keen, restless gray eyes, 
it stood out like tufts of moss. He was neither old nor 
young — in fact, it is at times hard to determine the ages of 
these rudely-constructed mountain inhabitants ; like the 
bowlders about them, age seems to add strength and hardi- 
hood. Upon the short, square body of my companion was a 
coarse homespun shirt, beneath a vest of the same shade 
and material. His legs, rather long for so short a body, 
were encased in a pair of clay-colored pants that hung as 
loose as a sailor's flaps, and the wind, freely circulating 
around his legs, caused these commodious casings to bulge 

7 6 

out like loosely furled sails. My last reply seemed to have 
satisfied him as to my calling, for his talk contained fewer 
insinuations and his manner became less mysterious as we 
jogged along. 

"Scuse me fer be'n so monstrus tegious, stranger; I jes 
wanted her git yer bearin's an' see which way yo' er hed- 
din. Wd uns up heer hev had so much trouble of late thet 
we air compelled ter be es wise es owls an' keen sited es 
eagles, see th' guvmint chap er far off an' hoi' 'im up 'fore 
he reaches th' dead line an' makes trouble fer his self. Hav' 
er chaw?" 

He had drawn a large piece of tobacco from his trouser's 
pocket, and, poking it at me without looking in my direc- 
tion, said: 

"Hits good smok'n tobacky, too, ef so be yo got yer pipe 

I declined to accept the proffered solace on the plea that 
I never used tobacco in any form. 

"Yo' mus' be powerful lonesom an' unhelthy, too," he 
exclaimed, turning around and staring at me with a face 
more expressive of astonishment than before. 

"Well, I got er little mount'n commodity under this yere 
seat an' ef man'll refuse ter oil his goozle wi' sich es that, 
he hain't got no liver an' melt." 

He was just in the act of thrusting his hand beneath his 
seat to draw forth the jug that I might test the pungency of 
the beverage, when I arrested it by calling his attention to 
a snow-white cross that stood upon a lofty peak some dis- 
tance to the right of us. 

"Love's Leap," he averred, with a wise nod of his head 
in that direction, "tho't every body on top side th' yerth 
hed heern tell erbout thet cross up thar, hit's bin tole er 
thousan' er moe times." 

He had forgotten the jug beneath his seat ; had turned 
his back upon his beasts and left them to stagger lazily 
down the road. And now, after ejecting a large quid of 
tobacco from his mouth and dashing to the road, he rested 
his elbow upon his knee and momentarily observed me with 
a look of wisdom that would do credit to a college professor. 

"That cross up thar," he observed, nodding his head in 


that direction, "is got er tale erbout hit that's cakilated ter 
giv yer er kinder hankerin' ter git futher an' futher 'way 
f'm hit when yo' heer hit — least wise that's th' way hit 
made me feel when heerd hit; hit happened this way: 

"Jes after th' war thar cums ter th' town uv Asheville 
wun er them thar Yankee ciarpet bag musick teachers, wi' 
purty good manners, good looks an' er powerful lack er 
money an' settled deown thar ter do bizness, er ruther ter 
flirt wi' Asheville's gals ; an' acorse like suthern gals air 
toard strangers they jes warm'd up ter 'im an' soon evry 
tongue wus er waggin' 'bout th' dash thisher yank wus er 
cutt'n. My, but want he er spellbinder on notes, tho'; he 
could gallup th' gammit faster'n eny chap's ever bin 'roun' 
these parts. Twus er cawshion ter see his fingers fox- 
chasin' an' overlapp'n each uther over them keys. Hit 
seemed thet ev'ry gal mongst th' highflyers wus after 'im, 
an' hit 'pear'd like he did'n hav no p'tickler laks fer eny uv 
'm — jes smil'd an' run on wi' all alike. But he purty soon 
show'd 'em thet his hed wus sot on one 'an' sot in yerness ; 
an' thet wus th' darter uv old Kurnal Jinkin's, who alius 
wus pison ergin yanks. Disher yank had bin in th' houses 
ov all th' big bugs, but ole Jinkins swore he'd never cross 
his sill. But th' gal, in santerin' roun' tother folkses houses, 
met an' coted 'im thar. Thet which cosses us mos' is thet 
we hanker arter mos', an' wus th' way wi' thet gal an' thet 
ding yank; he jes uptd an' got sot on thet gal th' fus time 
he saw 'er — luv at fus site, an' ginewine at thet. Ther ole 
kurnal pitched an' snorted when larn'd th' truth, tol' th' gal 
he'd see 'er ded afore he'd consent fer her ter marry th' 
yank. Th' gal she tuk on pow'ful erbout hit, fer she luv'd 
th' chap. But she tho't it her dooty ter 'bey her pappy, an' 
so jes pined erway. Th' yank he tuk on pow'ful too, but ole 
Jinkins stuk out an' sot his boys ter watchin' 'em ter see 
thet they did'n' git tergether. Finely th' yank he upt an' 
went erway ; then they titen'd th' lines on th' gal f 'r f eer ov 
er plot ter jine 'im in th' North. Two monts went by, an' 
one dark nite th' gal jes slipp'd plum out er site an' what 
puzzled 'em mos' wus thet she only tuk her praw'r book. 
Trains war sarch'd, telegrafs war sent an' th' woods war 
sarch'd es well, an' hit wus in th' woods they foun' 'er, fer 


she had lept fr'm thet peak up thar, praw'r book in han'. 
Fer deown below thar they cum erpun her body all brok 
an' brused ergin th' rocks, th' little praw'r book hilt tite 
'tween her bleed'n hans. Th' old kurnal tuk on pow'ful 
'bout hit, an' blamed hisself fer hit all. He dug her grave in 
th' rocks jes at th' foot er thet mount'n an' buried her thar, 
an' raise thet cross 'bove hit. He didn' liv' long after thet, 
jes pined away. They say she's bin seen more'n onct er 
wunderin' erbout thet place, moanin' ter her self — I hain't 
never seen 'er an' th' Lawd'l mighty knows I don't wanter. 
"Yes, thets why hits called Love's Leap," he concluded, 
with a shudder. "Fur up on th' yon side er Pisgah as yo' 
go erlong, yo'll see anuther cross, an' hits got er ghos' story 
erbout hit too ; an Indian an' his squaw's buried thar. 
Thisher country's jam full er mysteries — whoa thar," and 
he turned towards his team to check them, for we had 
reached Paint Rock. Both of us had forgotten the jug of 
corn whiskey beneath his seat — forgotten everything but 
the white cross, still visible, and its sad story of love, des- 
peration and death. 



A Pullman Porter's Story 

When the managers of the Atlantic Coast Line made up 
their minds that a shorter route from Richmond southward 
must be effected, they built what is now known to railroad 
men as the "Wilson Short Cut," a branch of road turning 
out from the main line at Wilson, N. C, and extending 
through to Florence, S. C, by way of Fayetteville, a small 
town on the upper Cape Fear River. This lessened the time 
of through trains by saving the necessity of going and com- 
ing by way of Wilmington, a hundred miles further east- 
ward. I had spent a brief period of my early childhood in 
Fayetteville, and although so many years had passed since 
then, the recollection of some of its streets and buildings, 
the old market house standing in the middle of the main 
street, the old water mill on the creek hard by with its cease- 
less "drumly-drum" seemed more vivid as I neared the old 
town, after a lapse of so many years. When, on its way to 
and fro the train paused at the humble little station, I would 
take in as much of the old town as a gaze from the rear 
platform of my car would permit, and from this eminence 
watch the inhabitants as they strolled past, to see if I might 
discern in the face of some child or adult the resemblance 
to some of my own kindred who must numeriously inhabit 
that section of the State. Then, there was another whose 
face I looked for far more eagerly than for relations, and a 
craving to see her made the desire to get off and ransack 
the town irresistable. Wilmington had been the scene of 
our early school days. And often, as I stood there looking 
at Fayetteville's antique dwellings and thinking longingly 
of her, it seemed that I heard again the clang of the old 
bell, the merry shouts of the children, and the throng of 
youth and beauty would come prancing past me. A few of 


them would pause to gaze into my face and fill me with the 
desire to be a child again. Charley Moseley, with his mirth- 
provoking grimaces; "Sonie" Bryant, lamb-like in his mis- 
chieviousness ; Nellie Gay, with her beautifully rounded fig- 
ure, shaking back her luxuriant hair ; dainty and bashful Vir- 
ginia Moore, blushing beneath her sunbonnet ; Katie Paine, 
old in all but years. Katie's old-time habits made her the 
prey of boys whose delight it was to tease in those days. 
Stoically returning a blow given jest, and darting about 
here and there amongst her playmates, that expressionless 
face of Katie's never betrayed the lustiness with which she 
joined in the sport. For Katie never laughed right out; 
she only smiled now and then, and her smiles were like fitful 
rays of light occasioned by small clouds driven past the sun, 
not tarrying long enough for one to feel their warmth. 
Many years had passed since the parents of this "little 
woman," with their immense household, had left Wilming- 
ton to try farming in Cumberland. What had become of 
them? I had often asked myself, as the train sped on its 
way and the sweet vision vanished. Had farming been 
more successful than carpentry? Had immense flocks and 
herds crowned their efforts in this new venture, or had they 
given up the struggle even for existence, and sought rest in 
the grave? One day I yielded to the desire to find out the 
truth concerning this once prosperous and happy family 
and left the train as it slowed up at the station, and by a 
few inquiries found — not the Paines, but Katie ; for with 
the exception of the two youngest ones, of all that once 
large and happy household, only Katie remained. The 
father, after a few years of unrequited toil, had sickened 
and died, and the mother and others of the family followed 
one by one, leaving this creature to battle with poverty and 
raise the younger orphans left behind. But the long and 
severe battle for existence had not changed Katie; she was 
old, but no older than when a child. There was the same 
sad face, capable of being momentarily brightened bv a 
smile. She knew me not at first, she akimbowcd, tossed her 
head to one side and shook it sadly as I stood there in the 
door of her cottage and endeavored to carry her back with 
me over past sunny years. But not until I had devulged 


my name did the past, with all its vividness, come back to 
her burdened mind. 

"Why did you not tell me your name at first? I recog- 
nized some familiarity in your features the moment you 
came up, but could not connect it with your name. Come 
in!" grasping my hand eagerly and pulling me toward a 
chair. "I haven't been to Wilmington since we left there, 
because of so much sickness and death and the worry with 
these children," she went on. "How did you happen to be 
here? Laws, I never expected to see you again." 

For a long time we sat and rambled through the dear old 
past, when hearts were young and free from care. 

"I suppose many of the boys and girls are grown up and 
married now, and few remain in the old home," she said 
with a sigh. "I have wanted so much to see the North 
myself, but I've been so burdened with these children." She 
sighed again. "Now they are big enough to take care of 
themselves; you may look for me out there at any time." 

I did not at that time take final leave of Katie. I was 
to return after taking in as much of the old town as my 
brief stay would permit. 

"Your hand must be the last I shall take before I leave 
this town, perhaps forever," I said, as I left her at the 
gate. That evening I stumbled upon an old acquaintance 
who, in search of work, had found a temporary home in 
Fayetteville, and together we wended our way to a cottage 
far out on the edge of the town, where a rehearsal for a 
prospective concert was in progress. Within this group 
of light hearts I could see no familiar face, nor hear such 
names as "Robinson," "Kelley," or "Fulton" mentioned. 
Of that innumerable tribe of mine scattered abroad in 
Cumberland and Bladen Counties, here was not a single 
offspring to show that they had striven to perpetuate their 
progeny. There was one family name, however, that im- 
pressed me more than any others mentioned there that night, 
because of its very large representation, and that was 
"Lacy." There were Mis Sarah Lacy, Miss Lucy Lacy, 
Miss Florie Lacy and other Lacys, the most conspicuous of 
whom was Miss Sarah, Mistress of Ceremonies, whose pro- 
gramme promised to be immoderately prolonged by inter- 


missions filled with "music by the band." So perfect were 
Miss Florie's reading and so beautiful Miss Sarah's sing- 
ing that I begged for a repetition of the same at the Lacy 
cottage the following day, to which, through the courtesy of 
my friend, I accompanied them that night. 

The sun was shining in through the window of my 
friend's apartment the following morning when I awoke. 
He, having to depart early, had been good enough not to 
awake me. Dressing myself, I went out and leisurely saun- 
tered towards the center of the old town, trying to arouse 
the drowsy memories of twenty years. One of the streets, 
crossing each other where the old market stands, leads 
over a small wooden bridge hard by the water-mill, and 
coming up to the court house, turns like a stream of water 
obliquely to the left. It was up this street I strode that 
morning, filled with emotion as my eyes fell upon scenes 
that had almost been erased from the memory. There, still, 
stands the court house, with its old bell, which for so many 
years had called the quility and just to the bar; and there 
stands the old church with its rusty steeple, covered with 
ivy, next to which is the old house where I lived when a 
child. There, still flows the creek with its ceaseless bubble, 
and the mill going "drumly-drum." I paused upon the old 
bridge that crossed it, to again listen to its murmur and 
muse upon the sweet and yet painful memories it recalled. 
Across that bridge many years a-gone, dashed a horse all 
covered with foam ; upon that horse sat a hatless boy with 
hair streaming in the wind, crying, "Yankee! Yankee! 
Yankee !" while "Thronged the citizens with terror dumb." 
Across that bridge, "Dewy with nature's tear drops as they 
passed," strode Sherman's triumphant legion on its famous 
march to the sea. As I stood there, musing over that event- 
ful episode, I heard the faint tap of the drum, the shrill 
clarion note of the bugle in the distance ; nearer and nearer 
it came, louder and louder were the sound of drum and fife, 
and the tread of marching feet, and the spirits of those im- 
mortal heroes swept past me, on, on into eternity to stand at 
parade rest around their grim old leader. 

At the Lacy cottage that afternoon, little Florie was first 
to welcome me, and while waiting for the others to join us, 


she gave me a little history of the family. "See, this is 
Papa," pointing to a large portrait over the mantel. "Papa 
is dead now, but he was very good, strove to give us all an 
education and make us self-supporting. This one hanging 
over the piano is that of a married sister of ours, now liv- 
ing in Virginia. This is our 'Mistress of Ceremonies'," she 
continued, courtesing before a small photo, on the end of 
the mantel. "But what's the use in my telling you about 
her; she has tongue enough to talk for herself. Here she 
comes now." 

The young lady entered briskly, came up and warmly 
shook my hand. 

"I knew you were here, knew you would be amply enter- 
tained until the rest of us could get in, by the person sent 
to receive you," she said, glancing mischievously at Florie. 

"Now Miss Sarah will fill us with rapture !" exclaimed 
Florie, seizing her sister by the arm and pulling her towards 
the piano. 

"Oh, wait 'till Lucy comes !" objected that lady, stub- 
bornly resisting her sister's efforts to push her down upon 
the piano stool. 

"Sure enough, there was another." 

"Another !" Florie interrupted, "why, there are many 
others," and she began to playfully count her fingers as 
though the exact size of the family could not be readily 

"I guess I'll have to go and fetch in that shy Lucy," and 
Florie darted out to return immediately, leading her sister 
by the hand. Though apparently the eldest of the three, 
this young lady was more retiring and less communicative. 
Her part in the rehearsal on the previous evening was very 
small, and at home that afternoon her keenest enjoyment, it 
seemed, was to listen to her sisters and applaud their witti- 

"I don't suppose these giddy girls thought to enquire 
how you like our little city, Mr. Fulton," she hazarded, look- 
ing toward the piano, where Sarah sat with her head bent 
forward, running her fingers over the keys as if trying to re- 
call some forgotten melody. 


"I have to-day satisfied a long-wished-for opportunity to 
ramble, as it were, among scenes of my childhood; this is 
my birthplace." 

"Birth place !" they all echoed in one breath. The music 
ceased; Sarah turned about and faced me, and Florie, who 
was ransacking the music rack, arose and advanced toward 
where I sat, hurriedly arranging several sheets she held in 
her hands. 

"This your birth place? Why! how" — 

"Oh, it's many years ago," I hastened to explain, and my 
kindred, if any remain, are just over the River." 

"Who were your relations?" asked Sarah. "My father, 
who was a public carter in this town before the War, was 
called by two names, 'Kelley,' and 'Fulton,' and my mother 
was a 'Robinson'. Perhaps that gives me a claim upon all 
the Robinsons, Fultons and Kelleys in the country." 

"The other two names you mentioned are rather strange," 
Florie answered, "but the town is swarming with 'Robin- 
sons', and if you'll stay over here a while, why, I'll help 
you 'round 'em up in true Western style." 

"I found one to-day," I answered, "but my time is too 
limited for further search. I hope to come again some day 
to look them up. But come, let us have some music, and 
talk of things more serious later on." 

Sarah turned again to the piano and began to slowly run 
her fingers over the keys. There was a voluptuous swell, 
and then the music died away. We heard the chimes in 
some faraway church tower, followed by the loud notes of 
the Anvil Chorus in "II Travatore," and then the music 
merged into the pathetic Miseriere, then into the prelude, 
to that touching old and appropriate song, "Faraway," and 
a voice, soft and sweet, conjured the tears down my cheeks. 
Miss Sarah arose and gracefully bowed her acknowledg- 
ment of the applause which followed. 

"Now as Hamlet said to the player, 'give us a taste of 
your quality,' Mr. Fulton." 

But I excused myself on the ground that although I had 
an appreciative ear for music, I possessed not the skill to 
perform or sing. 

"Now you can't fool us into the belief that you know 


nothing about music, speaking as you did last evening about 
'harmony' and 'expression','' exclaimed Florie, bounding up. 
"He's just trying to see how much we know. I'm sorry he 
came to our rehearsal." The little lady pouted like a child. 

"A person need not be a performer to know what sounds 
well," I answered. "I know but little in that line, and I hope 
the ladies will excuse me from attempting to exploit what 
little I do know. Both the singing and reading were ex- 
cellent last evening, and I was promised — as I cannot be 
at the concert — that to-day a wee bit, and the most interest- 
ing wee bit, of that proposed programme would be given 
for my pleasure, and now, before Miss Florie has filled her 
contract to recite, a demand is made upon the 'audience' 
to be the entertainer. Now ladies, it isn't fair." 

To this the young lady replied by rising and advancing to 
the middle of the room and beautifully recited the "Aux 
Italiens," to her sister's soft and inhancing accompaniment. 

The sun was setting when I bade adieu to the Lacys, to 
pass the night with a relative whom I had met by chance 
that day. The following morning I sat out to cross the 
river into the country to get among the more familiar scenes 
of childhood. The old covered bridge which spans the 
river, rebuilt after being burned by a retreating rebel army, 
gave me no inviting look as I approached it. My foot falls 
upon the floor echoed like voices from the dead, and made 
me feel rather uncomfortable. It was across this bridge 
my father had journeyed in the sixties, like Lot fleeing from 
a burning city, to pitch his tent in the wilderness. Close by 
the old county road, winding down, shaded by tall, majestic 
pines, giant oak and hickory trees and carpeted with their 
leaves, in a lowly cabin, we had spent our childhood days. 
When father, with the bulk of the family, finally sought a 
more promising abode in the metropolis, my brother Abe 
and I were left in this fairyland with an elder sister, to 
chase the bee, make water mills in the brooks, listen to the 
warbling of the birds, and far more sweet than all, the un- 
trained, but sweet and mellow voice of this child of nature. 
The song bird paused to listen when she sang "Barbara 
Allen," "James Gray," "Lily was a Lady," "Ella Lee," the 
songs she loved so well, and which cling to me, sweetening 


the recollection of those sunny days. It was toward this 
scene that I wended my way on this brisk October day to 
get among the dog-wood and the pine where we played. 
The narrow path leading from the road to the cabin, made 
sweet in summer by dog-wood and jasmine blossoms, is 
covered with weeds now, and all that remains of the dear 
old hut is a mass of ruins. But this did not render the 
memory of the hallowed past less sweet. "The bird and the 
blue fly roam over it still." Flowers that had blossomed for 
me so many years gone by were drooping their heads and 
shedding their petals as the chill winds touched them. But 
they had tarried long enough to assure me that through all 
the intervening years they had opened their mouths to catch 
the dews of summer and drooped at winter's stern com- 
mand. The brook that flowed near by the old cabin ap- 
peared less wide, and the path leading to the spring was 
entirely invisible. 

Abe, do you remember the restless little rill, 

That rippled 'neath the oak tree's spreading shade? 

Where we used to love to loiter as we journeyed to the mill, 
To rest, or in its shallow depth to wade? 

Have you forgot the jasmine, and the honeysuckle vines, 

The lilacs and wild roses white and red, 
Around the trees upon its banks the perfum'd vines still 

Although since then so many years have fled. 

The old corn field's a grove of trees which in that long ago 
Was one vast sea of living, waving green; 

Forever now they rest — the hands that handled plow and 
And we and them the Jordan rolls between. 

Of that old cabin once to us the palace of a king, 
Where two bare- footed monarchs used to reign ; 

To whose chinked walls so plain and bare, the sweetest 
mem'ries cling, 
A heap of logs, a mound of clay remain. 

There was no sister to greet me ; only a rude mound 
marks the spot here her holy dust was laid. Not far dis- 


tant, her children are ripening into manhood and woman- 
hood, and the father is feebly tottering toward the setting 
sun. The rude letters upon the humble slab that marks her 
resting place have been obliterated by the ravages of time, 
and what was written there of her virtues, her trials, her 
hopes, will never be known. But no more fitting epitaph 
could have been written there than this : 

"Nellie was a lady, 
An' las' night she died ; 
Toll the bells for lovely Nell, 
My own, true darky bride." 

I quit this scene with a sad and heavy heart, and hur- 
ried back to the town that I might say good bye to Katie 
before boarding the train for New York. There was noth- 
ing in her face to betray the emotions which stirred her 
soul when, after a long chat, I arose to go ; but the tenacity 
with which she held on to my hand showed how painful 
was the parting. 

"You may look for me out there ; I'm coming," she said, 
with a voice full of hope. 

Changes great and terrible have taken place in the old 
North State since then ; the despot's cry of "Negro Domi- 
nation" has shaken it to its very foundations. Peaceful, 
law-abiding citizens have arisen up to slay their brethren, 
and as other citizens more prosperous than she have had to 
seek elsewhere for what they could not enjoy at home, I 
would not be surprised to see some day, among the throngs 
of restless, persecuted refugees hurrying Northward the 
melanchody face of Katie Paine. 



A Pullman Porter's Story 

He was one of the many ragged little vagabonds that 
besiege passenger trains which stop daily at "Ashley Junc- 
tion," just one mile from Charleston, S. C, which, during 
winter and spring months, are laden with Northern people 
on their way to and from Florida and congenial localities in 
other Southern States. He was as frolicsome, cut up as 
many "monkey shines" to tempt the nickels and pennies 
from the pockets of the tourists as any of the others. But, 
unlike Negro children of his age whose eyes of soft brown 
are so beautiful, his were the eyes of a tipler, very red. He 
was doubtless as young as any of the others who rent the 
air with their songs and shouts ; but his red eyes, his comical 
way of blinking them, knotting his face and ducking about 
among the others of the company of entertainers, made him 
appear like some old man whom nature had cheated out of 
his growth and confined to the companionship of children. 
My frequent journey ings to and from Charleston had 
made me a familiar figure amongst the "children of the 
Junction; for the twenty or thirty minutes' wait there for 
Southern connections I usually spent romping with them, a 
hearty sharer of their sport, much to the disgust and chagrin 
of my fellow railroad men, who scorned the idea of seek- 
ing companionship with such "uncouth and degraded speci- 
mens of the human family," as one fellow put it. But were 
not these "uncouth specimens" human ? with the same feel- 
ings and propensities as others? What mattered it if their 
clothes were mere rags, their faces dirty and their hair un- 
kempt? Smalls, Whipper, Murray and others of that race 
in that old State who had so brilliantly demonstrated their 
fitness for higher things, came up from the ranks of the 
common people, such as these. My hero's name I could not 


easily remember, so I used to teasingly call him "Red Eye," 
and to him and all the little stripplings at the Junction I 
was known as "Hey wood." Their barks and herbs in early 
spring time, their violets, water lilies and strawberries 
always had a ready purchaser in me. I must never leave 
the Junction without a bunch of fresh violets in my lapel, 
and a basket of choice strawberries in my locker. For they 
all knew that "Heywood's return often meant a lot of cast- 
off clothing, old hats and old shoes to be distributed. None 
of these things — most of them very good — did I ever see 
any of them wearing at the Junction. 

"I war mine ter Sundy skule ; tink I gwa war um heah 
ter git all mummux up 'mong dese niggers ?" said Red Eye, 
one day, in answer to my queries. 

Old as Red Eye looked, he could jump higher, sing louder, 
and run faster than any boy or girl at the Junction. The 
Northerner never tires listening to "Go Down Moses," 
"Suwanee River," etc., and witnessing the "buck" and 
"wing" dance so cleverly performed by these little South- 
ern youngsters. So a performance must be given for every 
train-load of passengers that halted, and at these functions 
Red Eye was the Undisputed leader. For the pennies and 
nickels the passengers were inclined to throw out, the little 
ones would cut many queer capers. At times they were un- 
reasonable in their demands for things amusing, and trains 
would often pull out leaving some of the youngsters wet to 
their skins from diving in water for money thrown in to 
make the fun more enjoyable. Cruel as this part of the 
sport seemed, it was nevertheless an amusing spectacle. 
Red Eye, always apparently the least concerned, would 
often, while eyes were stretched watching the coin in the 
passenger's hand, bound into the air and seize it before 
it could hit the ground. Pushing the money into his pocket, 
he would leisurely saunter away with such a comical look of 
triumph in his face, that the passengers would forget the 
disappointment of witnessing a scramble. 

One Sunday morning in early spring, before the sun had 
arisen to kiss away the dew from the grass, while the air 
was still laden with the breath of sweet flowers, I strolled 
out from Charleston to attend "Love feast" at the little log 


meeting house at the Junction. None but those who have 
lived there can tell of the sweetness of a Southern spring 
time. A mocking bird, hidden away amid the foliage of a 
large oak tree, was calling to the sun to make haste, to 
gladden the earth with its light. Partridges, squattling be- 
neath a clump of bushes, startled me by their sudden and 
hasty flight, and a serpent, aroused from its repose, scam- 
pered away, hissing angrily at me as it went. Young as 
was the morning, the little church was well filled with wor- 
shippers and, floating out on the perfumed air, came that 
old familiar hymn, 

"Lawd in de mornin' dou shalt heah 
My voice ascendin' high." 

Very much to my astonishment, in a far corner, with a 
look of solemnity upon his face that a priest might covet, 
sat Red Eye. Solemn as he tried to appear, he could not 
dispel the mirth-provoking expression always there upon 
that ebony countenance. As I momentarily observed him 
sitting there, looking so sober and melancholy, my thoughts 
flitted back to the roadside, where he was wont to be any- 
thing but worshipful; and forgetful of my surroundings, I 
was about to exclaim, "Hello, Red Eye," but the sad wail of 
the worshippers snatched me from the roadside to "The 
Gate of Heaven," for surely "The Lord was in that place !" 
An angel had come down on that beautiful morning and had 
troubled the waters, and those humble worshippers were 
laving in the life-giving stream. At the close of the meet- 
ing, a hand was gently laid upon my shoulder, and that voice 
I had learned to love said: 

"Hello, Heywood! Wha' yo' doin' heah?" 

"I came to see if you really had need of Sunday clothes," 
I answered, good naturedly. , 

"Yo see um doncher, see um?" and, thrusting his thumbs 
into his suspenders, he strutted off a piece that I might sur- 
vey him to advantage. Turning about suddenly, his face 
again expressive of worshipful solemnity, he said: "An' 
yo' seed me in dat Amen corner, too ; did'n you Heywood ?" 

"Yes, I saw you and was surprised to see you so worship- 
ful, so good." 


"Oh, I tells yo' ise got de deligion, shoes yo' bo'n; Ise 
one er gawd's lambs, an' I spec ter be dar on dat gitt'n up 

He had thrown his hat upon the ground, and with one 
hand extended above his head, was shouting and capering 
about in the most comical way. There was the ring of 
honest truth in his voice, and I believed him. The rough- 
est piece of marble can be carved into the form of an angel. 
Jesus had died for this rough, uncouth, ignorant youngster 
as well as for the "wise and prudent," and made it possible 
that he, by the grace of God might be made to "shine as the 
brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever." . 

Pausing suddenly, he caught hold of my arm and said, 
Come, Heywood, gwa tek yo' home, show yo' me ma an' 
strawberry patch." 

I followed my devoted little friend that morning to his 
two-roomed cabin, there to find new acquaintances and 
make new friends whose homely yet copious hospitality 
made this humble log cabin the palace of a king. Although 
there were knives, forks and spoons for all who sat down 
to dine at the humble table, Red Eye felt that I would the 
better enjoy my dish of delicious "garden peas," fresh from 
the field, if I used his favorite spoon, which he himself had 
polished and cleaned. 

All through that balmy afternoon we wandered together 
through wood and field and by shady brooks in that Eden 
of jasmine, honey-suckles and violets, until weary and tired 
we sank down by the roadside to watch the spires of the 
distant city fade from view as the evening shadows fell 
around us. 

On my arrival at Jersey City, I was assigned for a few 
trips to a Western "run," and for quite a long period was 
deprived of my weekly romps with the children of the Junc- 
tion. Through the long stretch of country between New 
York and Chicago, hundreds of miles are traversed with- 
out as much as a glimpse of a single dusky face. How I 
did miss my little fun-makers ! How void of real life were 
these dreary Western journeyings ! Leaves, faded and dead, 
were flying hither and thither, blown by chill winds that 
heralded approaching winter, when I, with a load of 


Cubans, returning from Europe and Northern watering 
places, was again moving Southward. It was a dense foggy 
night, and the train having crossed the Pedee River into 
South Carolina, was slowly nearing Ashley Junction, when 
the engine's whistle gave a signal for "brakes," and came 
almost to an adrupt standstill. So quickly and suddenly 
were the brakes applied that the passengers were pretty 
severely shaken up and excited over the sudden and pain- 
ful pause. As soon as quiet was restored in my car I stole 
out upon the platform and looked ahead, and saw, about 
thirty yards ahead of the engine a group of men bending 
over something on the track. "Poor little fellow ! He has 
broken his leg," I heard someone exclaim, as I neared the 
scene. Bending over to get a closer view the eyes of my boy 
metmine. In his effrts to run swiftly over the track, one of 
his legs had caught and snapped just above the ankle. 
Although his sufferings were intense, he readily recognized 
me, and smiling through his tears, he raised a battered lan- 
tern which, though in agony, he was still firmly grasping, 
and said, "Heywood, I taut yo' bin on dat train." Tenderly 
we lifted the little fellow and carried him to the baggage car, 
and there made him as comfortable as possible. But it was 
not until the morning sun had cleared away the mist that 
we fully realized why he was there upon the track at that 
hour, and whathavoc had been averted by his being there. A 
blunder in the display of signals had caused a northbound 
freight train out of Charleston to collide with another, 
southbound, killing both engineers and thereby rendering 
others of the crews panic stricken and helpless. The boy, 
whose house was not far distant from the Junction, hear- 
ing the awful crash, had hastened to the scene, and seeing 
the others helpless, seized a lantern and ran ahead to warn 
the passenger train, which he knew would soon come thun- 
dering on unaware of the danger that awaited it. And al- 
though he had broken his leg before the train hove in sight, 
he bravely swung the lantern until the engineer saw it and 
stopped. Tears filled the eyes of many who bent over the 
little form that morning and lavishly showered money into 
the lap of the mother that had borne such a son ; for there, 
upon that rude pallet, lay a hero carved in ebony. 



A Pullman Porter's Story 

The Jew, like the colored brother, has suffered a good 
deal because of the universal antipathy towards his race. 
Unlike the Negro, whose color is his principal stigma, the 
Jew is singled out chiefly by his traits. In public convey- 
ances, playhouses, hotels, etc., the Jew is loudest in his de- 
mands for his money's worth and his every right as a citi- 
zen — a "chronic kicker," to use the common phrase. In the 
palace car service the porter has in many instances allowed 
himself to drift into the common trend of feeling ,in 4iis 
treatment of Jewish travellers. But all good men in the 
service will agree with me that on all fine trains and among 
the most select, first-class passengers the Jew figures very 
largely ; that in tipping he is as liberal as the average Chris- 
tian. Admitting that he is a kicker, the Jew is a desirable 
passenger ; for but few of the numerous reports that go into 
the district superintendent's offices frought with complaints 
about trifles to annoy and inconvenience employees are 
signed by Jews. The Jew is plain. If things don't go to 
suit him he'll speak out about it and often very loud, and if 
the employee is civil he need not look for further trouble ; 
for the Jew is not a sneak. The Jew is a sociable passen- 
ger, he likes to — if there is nothing else to absorb his at- 
tention — chat with the porter, which in the main consists 
of incessant interrogatories, and, strangely, too, about things 
on which one would suppose he is well informed. For in- 
stance: "Porter, what time does the three o'clock train 
leave?" He knows that the three o'clock train leaves sixty 
minutes past two o'clock, but a well-trained employee will 
answer even such absurd questions without the least show 
of anger. 

I am indebted to Porter E. R. A. Lawton for the follow- 
ing story: 


On a train en route from Chicago one night the sleeper 
was well filled with a load of jolly good-natured passengers 
and among the smokers who puffed away in the smoking 
department in the early part of the night was a lone Jew. 
When the berths had all been prepared and the porter had 
brought in his linen and deposited it upon a seat in the 
smoker as a hint to the wise that it was his bed time, the 
men one by one began to retire until with the exception of 
the Jewish passenger the smoker was empty. The Jew, not 
wishing to retire before enjoying another cigar, called the 
porter to him, "I sthay, porder, go to mine bert, lower num- 
ber six, feel under neadt and fetch me mine gthrip." 

"Yes sah," said the porter, hastening away. 

The grip was brought, the passenger opened it, took from 
it a quart bottle of whiskey, called for a glass, filled it about 
a third full, drank it, then offered some to the porter, who 

"Dhrink, porder," he insisted, "I'm no spodder, I no re- 
port at you, dhrink. Dot vas gude whiskey fhrum Brusen- 
heimer's on State Sthreet. Dhrink ! id do you gude." 

The porter accepted just a little. The passenger put the 
bottle again into its place, handed the bag back to the por- 
ter, lit a fresh cigar and settled himself back upon the 
lounge to enjoy it. 

Two o'clock the following morning, when all passengers 
were asleep, and the porter was on his shoe-cleaning rounds, 
he paused at number six, got down on his knees, cautiusly 
reached under it and slowly drew forth the Jew's bag, and 
sneaked with it towards the smoking room, there to test to 
his satisfaction the pungency of the beverage. It was good, 
so good, in fact, that the porter thought it would be un- 
charitable and selfish in him to enjoy it alone. 

"Hi there Cap'n !" he called to the sleeping car conductor 
who was passing at the time. "Come yeah ! Great Jerusalem, 
come yeah ! Jes hit dat," holding out the bottle to the con- 
ductor. "Look heah, ain't dat de bestes stuff yo ebber 
tasted ?" he asked that individual, who, after two long gulps 
handed back the bottle and wiped away the tears that the 
hasty swallowing of the strong stuff had pushed out of his 


"It's good. Where did you get it?" 

"From a Sheeny frien' er mine," returned the porter. 

The train conductor, catching the odor wafted upon the 
other's breath, naturally raised inquiries, and was soon 
journeying down the aisle toward the smoking room, fol- 
lowed by the brakeman, in whose wake sauntered the bag- 
gageman, and when the three got through "pulling" at the 
Jew's whiskey it was nearly all gone. 

That morning when the porter saw the man in number 
six arise and begin to dress he grabbed his duster and 
struck a bee line for the opposite end of the car. The first 
thing the passenger did on reaching the smoking room was 
to open his bag to take an eye-opener before proceeding to 
fix his toilet. But when he drew forth his bottle, and found 
it empty, he rushed out into the body of the car, and, hold- 
ing his pants with one hand, while with the other he. brand- 
ished the bottle, gave a yell and cut up some antics that 
would put an Indian ghost dancer to shame. 

"Where in the h'll is dot porder?" 

Passengers began to move about uneasily, thinking that 
a lunatic had got into the sleeper. The porter, hearing the 
noise, shyly peeped around into the aisle and was espied by 
the Jew, who shouted : "Ah ! ha ! you dondt knows me now, 
eh? Vere was da whiskey dat vas in dot bottle, eh? You 
vas dhrinking in der smoking room las nighd. I'll repordt 
you. Vere vas dot whiskey, eh?" 

"'Clar fo' God, boss, I dunno ting erbout it," returned the 
porter, coming shyly up to where the enraged passenger 

"Oh, no ! Idt evaporated, I suppose ! It leakdt oudt. I 
look in der bag, I see no leak. I look on der carpet, I see 
no leak, idt evaporated, eh? Oh — you rascale, I'll repordt 

The passengers had returned to the smoking room and 
had begun to dress, when the sleeping car conductor came 
by on his rounds returning passes and tickets. 

"I sthay Conductor," said the passenger, "I want ter 
spheak to you." 

"Well, fire away," answered that individual impatiently. 
"I tuke that nigger in th' shmokeroom lasdt night un' giv 


'im a dhrink of vhiskey dat cos' two dollar a quardt at Bru- 
zenheimer's on Shtate Sthreet; un jus' so soon as I vus in 
bed that nigger goes to mine bert, takes oud that boddle an' 
dhrinks th' balance." 

"You'll have to report that matter to thecompany," re- 
turned the conductor, "I haven't time to attend to it." 

"Oh, no," shouted the Jew, "You dhrunk, too ; all of you 
was dhrunk, de train conductor was dhrunk; sleebin' car 
conductor was dhrunk; brakeman was dhrunk; porder was 

dhrunk ; engineer was dhrunk everybody was dhrunk on 

dot vhiskey, an' I report th' whole crew." 

That was the work of a mean ingrate who deserved to be 
severely dealt with, but the palace car authorities received 
no complaint from the justly aggrieved passenger. 



A Pullman Porter's Story 

There boarded a southbound train out from Philadelphia 
one evening a little Negro girl about ten years of age. She 
was as frolicsome and as restless as a colt, with a head as 
bare of hair as a boy's. From a letter she poked up at me 
in answer to my queries, I learned that she was being re- 
turned to her mother in St. Augustine by people with whom 
she had been staying in a small town in New Jersey. There 
was also an earnest request that she be looked after by 
trainmen on the route and safely carried to her destination. 
I had often seen children tagged and shipped like animals 
from one section of the country to another, and their sad 
and forlorn aspect had always awakened my deepest sym- 
pathy. And as this little creature was one of my own race, 
I included myself as one whose special duty it was to look 
after her. But I was too busy on the first part of the 
journey to do more than casually glance at her as I went 
back and forth through the train. The following after- 
noon, the train having stopped just north of Goldsboro, 
N. C, on account of a wreck, a few young men in the 
coach in which the little girl was riding, were, in order to 
relieve the monotony of the long wait, amusing themselves 
and others at the expense of the "little nigger" by throwing 
old quids of tobacco, peanut hulls, apple cores and squirt- 
ing water at her from their mouths. But the plucky little 
creature was equal to the emergency. When I entered to 
entreat them to desist, she stood in the aisle with a glass of 
water in one hand and the stove poker in the other like a 
tigress at bay, glorious in her defiance, and making as much 
noise as an English sparrow. It was back in the sleeper 
that she finished her journey, where the ebony face was 


washed, the simple frock mended and rid of tobacco stains 
and the little head brushed. What a Topsy she must have 
been in that Northern household, and what a lot of trouble 
that Miss "Ophelia" must have undergone, I thought, as I 
stood and watched her come slowly up the aisle toward me, 
mischievously pulling this and that lady's hair or bonnet, 
or pounding the richly upholstered seats with her old school 
bag, which, with the exception of a small box hid away in a 
corner, was her sole possession; and it was just because she 
was so bad she was being sent home. 

"What did you say your name was ?" I aked, as she, with 
with a comical grin, pressed down upon my sore toe with 
her heel. 

"Sarah, Sarah Aaron," saucily; "I told you that three 
times before. You men are so forgetful." 

Her English was as perfect as any Bostonian could utter 
it — so in contrast with her rustic appearance. At Jackson- 
ville, where my journey ended, I accompanied her to the 
train which took her to St. Augustine. "Come and see us 
whenever you come to St. Augustine," she implored, cling- 
ing to my arm. "Remember, my n-a-m-e i-s S-a-r-a-h; 
Sarah Aaron. Oh, you men are so very forgetful." 

It was quite a few years after this before an opportunity 
to go to St. Augustine was given me ; it was when the Rich- 
mond and Danville Railroad had extended its lines into 
Florida, put on through fast trains from New York and 
boasted a much shorter route to the Gulf than any other 

It was my privilege to be one of the first Pullman men 
sent over this new line to arrive at Jacksonville in time to 
miss the St. Augustine connection by two hours, which 
necessitated a long and tiresome journey to our destination 
behind a "local." The very old city of St. Augustine has 
been transformed into modern beauty by the lavished wealth 
of Flagler, the oil king, and at this time, "Hotel White 
Elephant," successfully run by a portly dame, occupied quite 
an enviable site adjacent the modernized section of the city. 
It was past the dinner hour when I entered the inviting- 
looking dining room of this Southern hostelry, the only 
person visible being a small sized girl who timidly came for- 


ward with her face lit up with a smile which seemed to give 
her pain. "Two eggs, fried, and a cup 'o coffee, please," 
I requested, seating myself at one of the little snow-white 

"Sah?" she said, leaning over and pulling at her apron 
strings. I repeated the order. "And what have you in the 
way of cold meats?" 

"Bery nice ham, sah," chimed in another voice before that 
freezing smile sufficiently relieved the girl's face to answer 
me, and the portly proprietress strode out from behind a 
screen and confronted me. "An' we hab sum fine fish, 
fresh from de ribber an' fresh fried," she added, drawing 
nigh and seating herself at a table next mine. 

"Catfish?" I asked, thinking of New Orleans. 

"Now look yer, mister man, lookyer, we don't put catfish 
before customers in disher resterant. 

"Catfish is quite savory when properly prepared," I 
answered, thinking of the famous old Cape Fear River cat- 
so popular at my home. 

"Maks no dif'rent how sabry hit is its not de fish Gawd 
tole de chilan ter eat 'kase hits wi'dout de scales an' darfoe 
is er bomination ; no catfish fer Hotel White Elephant." 

"I'l try an order of fish," I said. 

No better opportunity than this, I thought, to enquire 
concerning my little heroine, whose fate and welfare were 
nearer to my heart than this much desired and at length 
gratified opportunity to stroll about in the oldest city in 
the United States. 

"I no dat gal lak a book," exclaimed the portly proprietress 
of "Hotel White Elephant," at the conclusion of my story 
of my meeting with the child and our eventful journey 
South. "She wus de beatenes' youngun dat eber Gawd let 
lib. Why, she kicked up so dar in de norf dat dey jes had 
ter bundle 'er up an' hustle 'er orf." 

"Why, she told me they sent her home because they were 
going West to live and did not care to take her so far 

"Hits 'er no sich 'er thing; dey sont 'er home 'kase she 
bin so bad. I no de time dey tuk her 'way ter be deir own 


chile, but de gal got so high dey had to — now yo' no de res'. 
Yo' coffee's gitt'n cold." 

She paused in this painful anamidversion to throw one of 
her slippers after a cat that emerged from the kitchen with 
a huge piece of fish in its mouth and bolted towards the 
back door. 

"When dat gal got back ter Sint Augustine," she re- 
sumed, "she had jes bin norf long nuff ter tun um cumpleet 
fool. Talk? Why, she had de Inglish so mix an' mumix 
up dat yo' could skasely understan' um. Hit wus 'carry' 
f er tote ; 'I cawnt place yaw,' fer I dunno yo, an' when she 
felt bad she had er fashion ob trowin' back dat clean hade er 
hern an' saying, T feel slitely indesposed tu diay.' Why, 
da' gal wus er consumin' fiah. How yo' lak dat fish?" 

"Splendid," I answered, scarcely knowing what I said. 
This woman knew not how unmercifully she was lacerating 
my very heart and driving away my appetite. 

"Where is she now," I asked, wearily. 

"De lawed knows, honey ; de las' I hearn ob er she bin in 
Jacksonbill, wild es er buck." "Where is her mother ?" "Dat 
gal's muther bin dade dese two yeahs now." "Mother 
dead ?" I gasped. "Den shewent to de bad fast," answered 
my informant, with a look of triumph in her eyes. "C'line ; 
bring de genman sum moe coffee." 

But I declined a second cup ; appetite for more to eat had 
left me as I sat there and pictured my little one only as a 
child of the slums, with that once innocent face marred by 
marks of dissipation. "Has she no kindred at all?" I asked 
after a long pause. "She's got er sister sum whar in New 
Augustine." I arose, paid my bill and staggered out into 
the darkness to learn from her sister more cheering news 
concerning my heroine, only to search for that sister in 
vain. At midnight, weary and exhausted, I sat down upon 
the steps of the old French market to enjoy the refreshing 
breeze. Far out to sea the breakers were rolling shore- 
ward like lions at play. Onward they came, rolling higher 
and higher and nearer and nearer until they engulfed me; 
then lifted and bore me to a faraway island of beauty. It 
seemed that there were no grown-up people there, it was 
child land, a land of Innocence and Love. There were mil- 


lions of little ones gathered there from the north and from 
the south and from the east and fromthe west, sporting 
among beautiful flowers and luxuriant foliage. As I stood 
there wrapt in wonder at the sights before me, the voice of 
a trumpet rang out above the din of mirth and merriment; 
I turned and looked eastward, and there in bright clouds 
above me, with thousands of happy ones about her, came a 
May Queen, and among the heralds that preceded her in 
her triumphant flight I recognized My Sarah. There were 
no marks of sin upon that ebony face; it was far more 
lovely than when I first beheld her. The vast procession 
swept past me and left her standing abashed before my 
astonished gaze. "Oh wicked Girl. How did you get 
here?" I cried in my amazement. "How has satan gotten 
in here amongst the children of the King?" She raised her 
beautiful brown eyes into mine, and in a musical voice she 

"I came to Jesus as I was, 

Weary and worn and sad ; 

I found in Him a resting place, 

And He hath made me glad. 
"In that land where I met you life lost all of its charms 
after mother died; then I became an outcast; for no one 
loved or pitied me, and the shafts of the unsympathetic 
flew at me with such unrelenting fury that one day, weary 
and tired, I lay down and asked my Redeemer to take me 
where He had taken my mother. Mother's here, just over 
yonder by the Silver Lake where she loves to sit. Come, 
she has wanted so much to see you that she might thank 
you for your kindness to me. Come; hear them singing?" 
I took her little hand in mine as over banks of beautiful 
flowers we skipped along. We were nearing the Silver 
Lake, with its banks waving with beautiful palms, when a 
hand was laid roughly upon my shoulder and a gruff voice 
said: "No sleep'n round here this timer nite." 

Far out atsea the waves still sparkling in the moonlight 
seemed to laugh in triumph at me in my disappointment. 
I arose and sauntered back to my car, and on the following 
morning as the train pulled out I stood upon the platform 
that I might see the old city fade from view. 

1 02 


A Pullman Porter's Story 

One evening- in the autumn of '89 I was ordered to take 
a load of passengers to St. Louis in car Egypt, an old 
"sleeper" which had for many years been used mainly for 
special service. But scarcity of cars in the district at this 
time had necessitated the pressing Of this car in as an 
"extra," on account of the inpouring of returning traveler 
from over the seas, crowding trains from New York for 
every section of the country. As I passed through the sta- 
tion, the immense piles of luggage and the great hordes 
that pressed about the gates led me to believe that my trip 
westward would be exceptionally prosperous. But to my 
surprise and disappointment, when the train pulled out, 
only "lowers" were sold in Car Egypt, and one entire 
section — section 13 — was empty. The scantiness of my 
load did not, however, so disconcert me as the marked 
absence of female passengers; there was not a single 
woman passenger in my car. In the opinion of some 
railroad men, the absence of women in Pullman cars is 
an omen of good luck. The porter who could say, "I 
came in 'chock-a-block' and without a single woman," 
need say no more to have it understood that he had 
had a prosperous trip. While few men could thus boast 
of a party made up entirely of women, most car service 
men believe that without her presence in a car the load 
is incomplete. The woman passenger not only adds 
charm to and in numerous ways relieves a long journey 
of its wonted monotony, but her presence invariably 
draws out the best qualities in man and puts him upon 
his mettle. Although the woman traveller is the most 
skilful in art of culling for nickels and dimes, it's the 


opinion of most porters "dead bad luck" to make a 
journey without the pleasant little annoyances that her 
presence in a car inevitably occasion. I being of the 
latter persuasion, felt ill at ease over this state of affairs, 
although my passengers seemed to be of the sporty sort, 
more welcome to the porter than any other class of 

As I went on my rounds making beds, I prepared 
number 13 for a chance get-on along the road; but we 
passed the principal stations without a call for a bed in 
any car in the train. The night gradually grew old ; con- 
versation in the smoking-room waxed cold and uninter- 
esting; the men one by one threw away their cigar butts 
and sought their beds, leaving the porter the only occu- 
pant. Alone : there is nothing at that hour of night that 
a porter more keenly enjoys. It is the time when he, 
weary and exhausted from the irksome labor of bed- 
making, falls into wakeful slumber — the sleep of a cat, 
which flees away at the slackening of speed, the round- 
ing of a curve, the blast of a whistle, the ringing of a bell ; 
a sleep which infuses into the weary body no real refresh- 
ing rest. I stretched myself out upon the lounge that I 
might enjoy as fully as possible this restless sleep, when 
instantly there came a long and vigorous ring of the bell. 
I arose and scanned the indicator; the arrow pointed to 
13, the vacant section. As indicators often register wrong, 
I walked up and down the aisle to see if there might not 
be a head protruding from between the curtains of some 
berth, but saw none. Passengers often make mistakes 
and go into the wrong berths : I looked in section 13, it 
was empty. Apparently everybody was fast asleep. I 
returned to the smoking-room and stretched out again. 
A signal to the flagman to protect the rear and a sudden 
check of the train aroused me a second time. I arose and 
started forward to learn the cause of the sudden stop, 
and just as I turned into the aisle I saw a woman in her 
night robe right in front of section 13. Her back was 
towards me; and she was bent over as though in search 
of something upon the floor. I hastened toward her, sure 
that she was a passenger from the car ahead, having lost 


her bearings, but before I could get into speaking dis- 
tance of her she disappeared around the corner. The car 
next mine was in charge of Sammy Boldes, an old and 
well-liked "regular" on old No. 9 to St. Louis. Entering 
Sam's car I found him sitting at the end of the aisle black- 
ing shoes. 

"Sam," said I, "why do you allow your passengers to 
go blundering around to find themselves going to bed 
in another car?" "What passengers?" asked he sulkily. 
"There are no women in my car, yet one was standing 
in the aisle just now and she came this way. Didn't 
you see her?" "No; there are only two women in this 
car, and they are both asleep there in section 2," an- 
swered Sam, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the 
direction of the section indicated. "Where did that 
woman go!" I scratched my head in perplexity. "I 
guess you've been dreaming," said Sam, looking up at 
me out of the corner of his eye ; "you'd better go back 
and get to blacking up." I returned to my car, searched 
it from end to end in every nook and corner of unoc- 
cupied space before settling down to shoe polishing. 
The train had again started up and was thundering on 
at its usual high speed. My mind had become so per- 
turbed over this now apparently mysterious episode that 
sleep had entirely forsaken me. When everything had 
been gotten in readiness for my passengers who would 
now soon be getting up, I sat down by the window and 
began to meditate upon the possible truthfulness of 
Sam's assertion that I had been dreaming: it seemed 
now that I had. I pressed my hand against my fore- 
head, it was hot and my temples were throbbing at a 
terribly rapid rate. I lay my head upon the window sill 
that the autumn winds might cool my temples. "I rang, 
Porter," said a soft voice, and turning my head quickly, 
I beheld the woman in the night robe, standing in the 
door of the smoking-room. She was running her fingers 
nervously through her black hair, which hung loosely 
down her back, and was staring over my head out 
through the window. A damp, sickening odor filled the 
room ; and the pale face and hollow eyes of my visitor 


made it seem that I was in a tomb in the presence of 
a resurrected corpse. "What can I do for you, madame !" 
I stammered, attempting" to rise. She fixed her gaze 
upon me and the look of horror in her hollow eyes 
riveted me to the spot, and with a voice that sounded 
like some one far away at dead of night, she said, "My 
husband is dead. They told me he had gone on ahead 
of us, but he had not. He was asleep in section 13 
when the crash came. Come ! Help me search !" Beck- 
oning eagerly to me to follow her, she disappeared. I 
arose to comply, but my limbs refused to support me, 
and I fell in a swoon upon the floor. 

When I came to myself I lay upon a cot in a large, 
plain, white, high-ceiling room. The sun, shining in 
through the tall, clean windows, shed its comforting 
rays upon upturned faces about me, forcing smiles of 
joy and gratitude upon nearly every faded cheek. I was 
in a hospital ; a place which through all my life I had 
associated with the prison-house of despair; a last 
earthly resort, where impatient, inhuman attendants 
only waited for a victim to die and did not hesitate to 
administer the "black bottle" to hasten the desired end. 
By the window nearest my cot stood three white-capped 
nurses, one of whom on seeing my eyes turned in that 
direction, came and bent over me. "Where am I?" I 
asked. "You are in St. Louis, in the Xavia Hospital, 
brought here about two weeks ago," she answered 
sweetly. "Why was I brought here, please?" I asked 
again, trying to penetrate the blank past. "You were 
taken off your car at the Union Station, raving with 
brain fever. But you must ask no more questions now: 
your case is a critical one and your recovery depends 
upon absolute quiet." She gently took hold of one of 
my wasted hands and held it up for my inspection, to 
show how two weeks' illness had told upon me. How 
thin and pale it was ! Tucking the covering carefully 
about me, she handed me a newspaper, pointed to a 
marked item in a corner of the second page, smiled and 
walked away. Sure enough ! There it was ; an account 


of my own illness ! The paper, which was dated Novem- 
ber 18th, contained the following brief, i. e., "Porter 
in the service of the Pullman Palace Car Com- 
pany, was taken off his car this morning at the Union 
Station ill with brain fever. The young man was so 
violent that it required the efforts of four men to hold 
him. He was taken to Xavia Hospital." 

Slowly it came back to me ; my journey from New 
York with car Egypt ; that woman ! her story of her 
lost husband. 

Yes, I had been ill, very ill ; my wasted hands showed 
it. But that woman with her distressful story was not 
the hallucination of a fevered brain. I saw her ! It was 
no dream. 

A few months afterwards, not having fully recovered 
from the effects of that terrible illness, I sat waiting my 
turn in Bullouch's barber shop in Jersey City, among a 
few other railroad men, with whom was Sammy Boldes. 
"Well old boy," said Sam, eyeing me sympa- 
thetically, "you've had a pretty tough time of it. You 
should have staid at home that night." "I did not feel 
the least ill when I left," I answered. "When a man's 
fever is so high that he sees ghosts his place is at home 
in his bed," said he chuckling. "When we got back 
there in answer to the summons of the frightened brake- 
man, you were raising Sam Henry about a woman in 
'section 13,' and I don't know what all." "What car did 
he have?" asked a man whose hair the barber was giving 

its finishing touches. "Old car Egypt," said Sam . 

"And that woman was no fancy," I persisted. "I saw 
her." The man in the chair spoke up again : "There's 
something wrong about that old car. I've never seen 
anything while in her, but I heard some mighty queer 
noises, so much so that I left her one night while laying 
over at Memphis, and went up-town to sleep." Porter 
Cumming, a veteran in the service, sitting beside me. 
raised his eyes from his paper and listened intently to 
the conversation concerning the old car, but said noth- 
ing. "There's a kind of sickening feeling that I can't 


explain which came over me when I had that old car; I 
felt it mostly when trying to sleep in the smoking-room," 
and to tell you the truth, gentlemen, I believe it's 
haunted," concluded the man, as he rose from the chair. 
As I left the barber shop and started toward the ferry 
to cross to my home in Brooklyn, Porter Cumming 
joined me. 

"Your talk this morning about old car Egypt recalled 
to my mind a very thrilling experience of mine in con- 
nection with its history," said he. "That car is haunted, 
and I know it! But I have said but little about it to 
any one for fear of being ridiculed and looked upon as 

"I see that you have been ill; and it was brain fever?" 
"But I was perfectly rational as regards the woman in- 
cident, regardless of the state of my mind afterwards." 

"What did you see?" I related my experience as 
minutely as I could remember it. "In the spring of '85," 
he began, "I was running regularly between here and 
Washington, leaving Jersey City on the 'Owl' and com- 
ing in on old '78.' One morning as I went to the office 
to report and 'sign out,' I was told that I with three 
other men had been selected to make a special trip to 
Los Angeles, Cal., with a bridal party from New York 
City. The following day we busied ourselves putting in 
the immense stock of provisions required and making 
other preparations for the long journey. The party 
was to leave that evening, proceeding from the church to 
the train. It consisted of the bridal pair, the family phy- 
sician, four lady friends, and a man and maid-servant. 
At our disposal we had two cars ■ a hotel and observa- 
tion car and a sleeper, which of course was car Egypt. 

"We were to go direct to Los Angeles, via Chicago, 
and remain there about three weeks. From thence we 
were to journey southward into Mexico, and make our 
way homeward by way of New Orleans. It was indeed a 
first class party of rich and cultured people. The bride, 
a tall and handsome brunette, was the life of the party, 
enslaving us all by her vivacity and sweetness of disposi- 
tion ; she entered into everything that meant for making 


the trip one of pleasure and recreation. One evening, 
just eight weeks after leaving New York, we pulled out 
of New Orleans, homeward bound over the great Louis- 
ville and Nashville railroad. All other trains had been or- 
dered to give us the right of way and we thundered up 
the road at the rate of fifty miles an hour. A few miles 
south of Birmingham, Ala., a freight train having side- 
tracked had failed to throw the 'switch,' and our train 
rushed into the siding and was wrecked, killing the engi- 
neer, severely scalding the fireman and crushing the bride- 
groom and the manservant beyond recognition. 

"These two slept opposite the bride, who, with others 
of the party, escaped with slight bruises. Old car Egypt, 
in which they all slept, seemed to have gotten the fullest 
force of the blow. It was a pitiful and awful sight to see 
that young woman, the bride, pulling her hair in the agony 
of her grief as she followed us about in our search for the 
missing men; and when the truth was revealed to her she 
went completely mad then and there. 'Oh, Frank, don't 
sleep in that berth! I'm superstitious. Come, Frank, it's 
time to get up. I wonder how long it will be before we 
get home, I'm tired of this wearisome journey,' she would 
wail softly, and then burst into hysterical laughing and 
weeping. I will never as long as I live forget that scene. 
A telegram to Birmingham brought down a car-load of 
railroad officials and physicians, and the party, with their 
belongings, were taken to that city and we saw them no 
more. About six months after that I met the lady's maid 
on Fifth Avenue in New York and she told me that her 
mistress never recovered, but died a raving maniac in a 
private asylum in less than two months after reaching 
home. The two cars were 'shopped' and completely over- 
hauled and made more inviting inside and out. One night 
at least a year afterwards, car Egypt was assigned to me 
for a trip on the 'owl.' Sitting down at the window to 
enjoy a smoke after my passengers had retired, I could 
hear that wretched woman's wails and sobs just as plainly 
as I heard her on that night. I was so frightened that I 
started to go forward into the car ahead of me; but just 


as I got into the aisle I saw just what you saw in front of 
Section 13 — it was that very woman with her head bent 
forward precisely as you described her. I turned about, 
went back, and stood in the door until the train reached 
Washington. And you bet your life I was too sick to 
go out when the time came for me to come back to Jersey. 
That woman's ghost will follow that car as long as it ex- 
ists, and the only way to lay it is to burn car Egypt." 



A Pullman Porter's Story. 

"Look out for the Cap'n !" Every car service man knew 
him from the Lakes to the Gulf, and from Maine to the Pa- 
cific Coast. To say that this individual had boarded a 
train or alighted from a train on the same line as many 
as a hundred miles away has sent a thrill of terror through 
many a porter and driven sleep from his eyes. The Cap'n 
at one time had been a District Superintendent of the Pull- 
man Palace Car Co., but not being a success in that capac- 
ity, was promoted ( ?) to the office of "Inspector" — of-er- 
Cars — I suppose that was the original meaning or inten- 
tion of the authorities — but the name of the office as the 
Cap'n filled it was Legion. 

He inspected everything, making a specialty of em- 
ployes, to whom he was an undying worm and an un- 
quenchable fire. Surely the Cap'n entered his true calling 
when he was made "Inspector." Nothing pleased the Cap'n 
more than to slip up on and catch a porter or conductor 
off his guard — "asleep on duty," or "not out with his step- 
ping box," or "putting up beds without using the box or 
'shamy,' " etc., etc. It was often said of the old fellow 
that he was nearer akin to the devil than any other human 
being; for, like his satanic majesty, he was omnipresent, 
often appearing like a spectre before unwary conductors 
and porters while trains were running at their highest 
speed. This I cannot vouch for, but I do know that he 
has often put himself to the inconvenience of standing for 
hours at some secluded flag station in order to slyly board a 
train at its foremost end and sneak back to the sleeper to 
loook for irregularities to report. "Look out for the 
Cap'n!" This was the familiar warning throughout the 


length and breadth of country wherever the Pullman car 
has rolled. Men often sent telegrams of warning — "TRe 

Cap'n got off at station ! Look out !" "Look out 

for the Cap'n, he may get on your train out of Jersey 
City tonight. 

He entered a sleeping car one night, and, finding the 
porter asleep, seated himself beside him that he might 
fill the poor wretch with terror when he awoke. But the 
old fellow, being tired, was soon himself fast asleep. The 
train conductor passing, and seeing through the Cap'n's 
trick, gently awakened the porter, pointed to the 
sleeper beside him and went on his way. When the Cap'n 
awoke the porter was at the other end of the car blacking 
shoes. This incident was never reported. 

The first time that I encountered the old gentleman was 
just two months after my entrance into the service of the 
company. He boarded a Coast Line train out from Jersey 
City, N. J., one evening, and to my discomfort paid very 
much attention to the car under my charge. After search- 
ing every hole and corner in the car, it seemed to me he 
paused in the aisle to watch me make beds. Beckoning me 
to him, finally he said: "Remove that toothpick from your 
mouth, Porter; it doesn't look well." I complied and went 
on with my work. He remained and watched me for a 
few moments longer, then went on into the car ahead of 
mine. About two trips after this incident, on entering the 
superintendent's office in Jersey City the chief clerk called 
me to his desk and read to me the following report : "On 
car Severn, out of Jersey City, train No. 15, August, 23, 
1888, I noticed that the porter held a toothpick between 
his teeth. I called him to me and gently requested that he 
remove it, as it did not look well. In complying, he acted 
surly, threw the toothpick behind him, I think on a pas- 
senger's lap, and angrily flaunted the sheets and blankets 
in the passengers' faces." "Shameless liar!" I answered 
inwardly, as I bit my lips. Truthful as I might be and 
honest, his word would carry all the weight, I thought, as 
I stood there like a criminal condemned and awaiting sen- 
tence. I was too astonished at the Judas-like duplicity of 
this old chap in whose presence I had done my best, to Jo 


more than to say that it was reasonable to suppose that I 
would be extremely careful of my conduct in the presence 
of the man whose power and reputation I so well knew, 
even for that length of time in the Pullman service. ''You 
must try and cultivate better manners," answered the chief 
clerk, handing me a slip of paper, which read as follows: 
''Porter D. B. Fulton, you are hereby suspended for five 
days, your salary to cease from now until September 2d, 
1888.'' Five days' pays was quite a good deal to lose out of 
a small salary — and for nothing. I left the office with 
tempest raging in my soul and with a strong desire to 
catch "by the throat the uncircumcised dog" who could so 
abuse his authority as to so brazenly utter an untruth and 
thereby do injury to an humble fellow. I learned after- 
wards that the best way to avoid getting into trouble with 
this old fellow was to flatter him; follow him about the 
car whenever he boarded it; ask very anxiously about his 
health, his wife's health ; invite him into your 'buffet" to 
help himself to your choicest whiskies, wines, and cigars, 
or the best lunch you could prepare. The porter that fol- 
lowed this course in his treatment of the Cap'n never got 
an ill report, it mattered not in what condition he or his car 
was found. 

What a character for such a position ! Extremely selfish 
and revengeful, the old fellow was ever ready to resent 
even what seemed to be a disregard for him in his official 
capacity. It is said that he followed one porter for years 
against whom he held a grudge, seeking to find something 
against him to report. But as this man ran regularly be- 
tween Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and was old in the ser- 
vice, it was difficult to lodge a complaint against him that 
would cause him to lose more than time required to write 
a statement. The superintendents in these respective dis- 
tricts knew well the Cap'n's duplicity, sensitiveness and sel- 
fishness; and this feeling of disregard for him often con- 
signed his reports to the waste basket as malicious false- 
hoods. This porter, knowing of the Cap'n's unpopularity 
in the two districts mentioned, and the high esteem in which 
the respective superintendents were held by the company, 


never let slip an opportunity to show his contempt for the 
old fellow, thereby making him writhe in indignation and 
desire for revenge. Passing through old "number ten" at 
Harrisburgh one night the Cap'n found his old enemy fast 
asleep on duty ; and so delighted was he over the anticipated 
sweet draught of revenge that he jumped out upon the sta- 
tion platform and shouted, "I've got th' coon at last! 
I've got th' coon at last!" "Who is it, Cap'n?" asked sev- 
eral trainmen, who gathered around, attracted by the old 
fellow's antics. "Why, it's ol' Joe, fast asleep." But al- 
though his report of the incident was carefully worded, 
dwelling at length upon the importance of "the careful 
guarding of cars," "the prevalence of thieves in large 
stations," the "liabilities of the company in the event of 
robberies through the incompetency of employees," etc., 
he could not effect the loss to "Joe" of a single day. Tob 
Jones and the Cap'n were old cronies ; and it is alleged that 
his liking for Tob often hid a multitude of faults — and Tob 
had faults by the multitude. But the Cap'n caught Tob in 
a predicament one night, however, that would have caused 
him to shake his brother and it was only Tob's cunning that 
saved him from being shook, for Tob Jones was not easily 
trapped. The Cap'n, knowing that Tob was in charge of a 
certain car, boarded it at Harrisburgh — not to give his 
friend trouble, but for a friendly chat; the Cap'n wouldn't 
"peach" on Tob if it could be avoided. He searched the 
car from end to end, but saw nothing of the "faithful" 
Tobias. Passing through a third time in despair, the Cap'n 
discovered Tob's black-socked foot protruding from between 
the curtains of an upper berth. Seizing this extremity, the 
old fellow called in a stage whisper, "Tobias! Tobias! 
Tobias !" Now, it's only the veteran porter that can awaken 
decently, without stretching, yawning, garping and blandly 
betraying himself. Tobias was an expert. The first tug 
at Tob's foot awoke him, but he didn't move ; not he. When 
the Cap'n made a third tug, Tob eased his foot in, poked 
out his head and gave his old friend one of those freezing 
yet mirth-provoking stares, which only Tob could give. 
"She-e-e Cap'n," he whispered, "I'm watchin' 'im, I'm got 


ma eye on 'im." "What is the matter, Tob?" asked the 
Cap'n impatiently. "She-e-e! dars er man in disher neath 
berth heah, pok'n his han' roun' dar an' tryin' ter rob dat 
lady in de one er head but I'm on ter 'im ; I heered you 
when you fus cum in, but I wanted ter keep ma eye on dis 
feller," concluded Tob, stretching his eyes and spreading his 
huge palm before the now deeply interested Cap'n to make 
his words the more impressive. "That's right, Tob," said 
the Cap'n, passing on. The old fellow learned how badly 
he had been fooled when, one evening, he passed through 
the station at Jersey City and overheard some men laugh- 
ing and talking about how Tob had outwitted the Cap'n. 
It was the Cap'n's delight to sit in district superintendents ' 
offices and relate his many amusing experiences with em- 
ployees on the roads. One day, away down South, he came 
across a car side-tracked in quite a lonely spot, went 
through it and found it deserted. A few rods away, in a 
watermelon patch, he came upon the conductor and porter, 
who, having filled up on the juicy fruit, had spread a towel 
on the ground and were earnestly engaged in the game of 
"seven up." Cautiously approaching the two men, the 
Cap'n said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but are you in charge 
of that car over yonder?" "Yas, we's in charge er dat 
kiar over yander ; an' wut erbout hit?" answered the colored 
man, without even looking up at the questioner. "I thought 
that if you were you are quite a distance from your charge, 
that's all," returned the Cap'n. "Dat ar kiar ain't gonter 
run erway — yo' deal, Cap" (to the conductor). "If anybody 
starts off with her, I reckon we can overhaul 'em before 
they can get far away, old man," said the conductor care- 
lessly. "I beg Jim" (to the porter). "Some people's all de 
time mekin' deyself fresh 'bout deseyer kiars," said the 
porter, issuing a couple of cards to the conductor. "Sup- 
pose the Cap'n should come along and find that car un- 
guarded?" "Who de hell's de Cap'n?" demanded the porter. 
"He's nobody's daddy," chimed in the conductor. "Cut the 
cards, Jim" (to the porter). "There seems to be so much 
red tape about this sleeping car business," he continued. 
"Why, a fellow can't go out and get a quiff of fresh air and 


recreation but what he's got to be ding-donged at about 
'the rules' and 'the Cap'n;' damn the Cap'n!" "An' I say 
de same," exclaimed the porter; "good fer nuthin' ol' flop- 
yeared varmint. High, low, Jack an' de game!" 

"My feelings at this stage had become so wrought up 
over these unexpected compliments that I could restrain 
myself no longer. Snatching out my notebook, I exclaimed : 
'I'm the Cap'n, and I demand that you get on that car and 
be quick about it.' The nigger rolled all the way to the 
car and rolled in at the window, while the astonished and 
frightened conductor walked behind me making excuses 
and apologies ; he was new in the service and unacquainted 
with the rules, etc. I let them off with ten days each." 










; V 










» 1 



















Lack's iT